


home is where i'm alone with you

by cmonaspen



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, UNFINISHED ! maybe i'll pick it up eventually., blake is a little confused, definitely angst, i literally don't know where i'm going with this, its a NY au which you will come to know, its kind of slow burn give me a little bit, maybe a little side whiterose im not sure, not nsfw but im a libra so sorry, we'll see how long it takes to be finished after my manic episode ends LMAO
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24665767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmonaspen/pseuds/cmonaspen
Summary: And then she turns her head. Meets Yang’s gaze. Freezes for a moment. Parts her lips, closes them.Yang stops working. Soaks the woman’s expression up, lets it run through her veins, releases it with her breath, does it again. Her eyes are golden and Yang wants to hide in them. Her lips look soft and Yang wants to touch them. Her neck is smooth, bare, and Yang wants to paint it. She wants to make art. But how can you make art out of a masterpiece?Blake offers Yang a brief smile that says "sorry for catching your eye".Yang wishes it’d said "hello".
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 148
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> havent written a fanfic in literally two and a half years or something so. bear with me im trying .
> 
> also my editor (yes) told me it sounded kind of h word at times so i apologize?? it's not supposed to at all but it makes sense with the plot i g uess and im also a libra so i dont notice these things. there's nothing literally sexual though lmao dont worry
> 
> also use dashes in a weird way but i literally cannot change that for the life of me oops
> 
> hope you vibe w it doe, quality will probably get better as the parts go on but this probably wont be super long so idk we'll see mwah

It’s always been a little concerning how much time Blake spends away from the real world. She knows that, she’s had the conversation more times than she cares to. 

She doesn’t blame anyone for inquiring, of course. It’s hard not to notice how much time she spends around fiction. She’s in bookstores so often, it’s surprising she hasn’t rented one out herself. She carries a new book around with her every day, like she can slip between the back cover and the last page and hide from whatever situation had made her shoulders especially tense that day. The chair she’s sitting in, resting comfortably in a corner between two bookshelves, has a permanent indent in its cushion from how many hours she’s spent with her knees pulled against her chest and her eyes trained on the latest piece of literature she’s deemed obsession-worthy.

Books are hers. Her thing. They always have been.

She’s nearly perfected the art of reading. She takes words in and soaks them in her blood. Sews them together with neat stitching, thread made of her thoughts, and wears them like a scarf. Like a protection from the cold that she doesn’t plan to give up anytime soon. 

She relies on the words written inside of the pages she turns. The words telling tales of unexpected heroes, of mended tragedy, of antagonists who don’t know anything more than what they’re fighting for, but want to. They give her something to think about. To consider. To live for.

Maybe that’s why she’s so easily sucked into the fantasy worlds she reads about. They give her a purpose; to finish the story. 

There’s a certain danger that comes with shoving yourself into novels, of course. It doesn’t come as a surprise to Blake- she’s learned there’s always a catch- but she never gets used to it, and she doesn’t think anyone can. Because when you spend so much time devouring the conversations and experiences of women knights and ninja masters- things in the real world are bound to get a little boring. 

Gods, “a little boring” doesn’t even cover it. Blake’s real life is a drag. She knows that, but she doesn’t complain about it. She just goes through the motions, as everyone does. She writes her articles, edits, teaches herself recipes (that tend to go worse than well), and waits for any excuse to leave her suffocating apartment, walk to the nearest bookstore, and live as someone else for a few hours. 

She’s not unhappy with who she is, or where she is. Not entirely. She’s thankful for what she has, for who she has, and she makes it known whenever possible- that’s just Blake. She’s okay. More so than she had been in the recent past. But some part of her- a small, frustrating part of her- feels lost. Like she’s missing out on something huge. Something worth everything. 

And that part of her is longing to find out what it is.

She thinks it’s so odd, the way her mind works. The way it splits into different pieces, each one responsible for a different thought, a different feeling. She knows her mother’s mind worked the same at a younger age, which is refreshing in its own way. Like the first breath you take after choking for a few moments. That kind of refreshing.

The kind Blake is silently _begging_ for the main character in her book to feel, because the poor girl’s being held above the ground by her neck. 

_Come on, Ember. Come on, come on, come on._ Her thoughts aren’t exactly frantic, so much as they are encouraging, but it’d be an easy mistake to think otherwise. _Do something_. 

Blake’s not sitting comfortably anymore. She’s leaning forward in the chair, feet flat on the ground and elbows resting on her knees. She holds her book so close to her face, she can smell the pages, protective and suspenseful. Her heart is hammering in her chest, and it sounds like drums. 

Her lip is raw, red, like she’s been chewing it for hours, and she probably has been. She’s not breathing, either. Her chest is frozen, tight. She’s nervous, and her adrenaline is pumping hard. Harder than usual. Because the book has three pages left, and Ember still hasn’t won the fight.

It’s nearly impossible how quickly her eyes move across the page. She’s devouring this, devouring every moment, every possibility, every detail, and _praying_ against her expectations. 

She holds the book so tightly, you’d think she’s scared it’ll run away. Her pupils dilate, too, and her lip hurts, and her foot begins to tap, and Ember still isn’t breathing, and Blake’s begging the author not to do her wrong, and she’s nervous, and she inhales, and--

“Fuck!” 

It’s the first word she’s spoken aloud in four hours, and it sounds understandably more distressed than the “hi” she’d offered upon entering the store. 

“Everything alright, Miss Belladonna?” The store owner’s voice sounds out from behind a distant bookshelf, amusement all but inevident. 

Blake flushes, feels embarrassment take her cheeks over before she can even register that it’s there. “Not at all,” she replies, standing up from her chair and following his voice. 

“Noelle Cooke?” he asks.

“Noelle Cooke,” she confirms.

He smiles as she turns the corner, eyes crinkling at the ends like they’re used to the expression. Blake thinks they are. “She’s a devil of an author, isn’t she?”

Blake nods, leaning against a shelf. 

“Let me guess… _The Heirs of Atlas_?”

Blake is the one to smile this time, warm and curious. “Yeah,” she says, “how did you know?”

“Aside from me seeing the book when you came in? That cliffhanger ripped me apart, too. Had the exact same reaction.”

Blake’s been coming to this bookstore for the past five months, and it’s remained her favorite to date. She and this particular store owner, David, get along incredibly well, and she’s always happy to joke around with him. He makes her tea and lets her read, and she gives him company. It’s a routine they’ve developed, a routine they both enjoy, and Blake appreciates it more than she can put into words. She’s iffy when it comes to men, and has been for a little while, but David is old and cheerful, and Blake likes it. It’s nice to have an old soul around.

“I just don’t _get_ it,” she says, skimming over the book's back cover like she hasn’t done it before, like she’s looking for a new detail she must’ve missed. “It’s like, sadistic, the way she did it.”

David crouches down, runs his fingertips along the binds of a bunch of novels sitting on the lowest shelf. “It’s Cooke,” he offers. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well-” Blake stops to think for a moment, to figure out a rebuttal. “In _Avian Nebula_ , the cliffhanger wasn’t _nearly_ as harsh. Or _Anatolia Grieving_. I didn’t lose sleep over either of those.”

“Oh, but you will over _The Heirs of Atlas_?”

“Undoubtedly,” she deadpans. “I’m already planning to stock my fridge with Redbull to get through tomorrow on two hours of rest.” It’s a half joke.

David laughs from his belly.

“You think I’m kidding,” she continues, shaking her head and hiding a smile. “This is outrageous. I’m calling in a complaint.”

David stands with another chuckle, adjusting the tweed cap that sits on his head. “You can use the phone in the front,” he offers, beginning to walk back toward the counter.

Blake follows, reading book spines as she walks between shelves. “You don’t have a phone in the front. This is just a ploy to get me to drink your tea.”

“You act like it’s not the best tea on the block.”

“That’s because it’s not.” She smiles as she says it, knowing full well she’s wrong.

David grabs his chest, doubling over a little and feigning pain. “How could you say such things to me? I am feeble.”

Blake lets out a full laugh this time, covering her mouth with her fingers. “You are not.”

“I am!” he replies, making his way behind the front counter. “I’m old.”

“I just watched you lift a sixty pound box of books half an hour ago.”

“Oh, hush,” he says, waving his hand. “Burst of energy.”

“Right.” 

Blake pulls her stool out from under the counter- the stool David brought in specifically for her on her fifteenth night at the store in a row- and sits down on it. It’s not the most comfortable, but she’s grateful for the gesture, and it’d be a shame to make his gift go unused.

“What’s the next book called, then?” David asks, working over his small wood stove in the corner. “‘Crow Muscles’ or something?”

“ _The Bones of the Raven_ ,” Blake corrects, resting her chin in her palm. “It’s not releasing until February.”

“That’s not too far away, it’s only- what, three months?”

She nods. “About. I just totally thought Ember would get out of it, you know? She always had before.”

David shrugs, opening a cabinet and grabbing two mugs. “Because she ran.”

“Ran?” Blake tilts her head.

“Yeah. She ran away from her problems. The inconveniences. The bad.”

“Well-” Her brows furrow. “It was courageous.”

“Maybe,” David says, “or maybe that's what you’re supposed to believe.”

Blake shifts a little, sitting further on the edge of her stool, as if being physically closer to an explanation will curb her curiosity quicker. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s simple, really.” Hot water is poured into mugs, teabags dropped through steam. “The antagonist, Dugal, he made it his goal to manipulate Ember’s thoughts, right? Both literally and through other means.” Blake nods. “Dugal and Ember had multiple conversations about the problems Dugal would cause if Ember didn’t step down. Did she step down?”

“No,” Blake says, shaking her head. “She ignored the threats.”

“Exactly. And when she ignored the threats, Dugal got angrier. When he saw Ember again, he blamed her for what was to come, right?” Blake nods again. “He told Ember that the bad things he was planning on doing were going to be her fault, because she didn’t heed the warning and chose to keep her position. So she left, took her reluctance with her.”

“But- that’s what I’m saying,” she counters. “She didn’t want to leave after Dugal blamed her, but she did. To protect her team. That’s courage.”

David turns and raises a finger. “On the contrary. That’s a result of manipulation. I’m not saying her leaving makes her weak, because it doesn’t. Given the circumstances and her guilt, she had the right idea; leave to protect those she loved. But she _knew_ Dugal was a manipulative being, and didn’t take time to think about how her running away would affect the mission as a whole- how it would ultimately end up in her friends being unconscious as she choked.”

Blake chews on the inside of her lip as David places a mug in front of her, along with a small jar of honey and a little spoon. 

“It was selfless of her,” he continues, “but it was dumb. She didn’t want to do it, but after being influenced by a being notorious for using manipulation in his battles, she thought it was right, so she did it.” David pauses for a couple moments before speaking again. “Personally, I think her return was much more courageous than her leaving.”

Blake pulls her mug closer, dipping the spoon in honey and stirring it into her tea. “You think so?”

“Definitely. She had to fight through the ideas put into her head, the idea that she was the reason things would’ve and had gone wrong. She had to push past the idea that returning was wrong, and convince herself it was for the best, despite having been blatantly manipulated by an asshole-demon-god-thing. That takes a lot of strength. Walking back into that base after disappearing was the bravest thing she did, in my eyes.”

Blake is silent for a little bit, watching her honey dissolve in the mug as she circles the spoon around. Then, she nods. Fighting through planted thoughts is hard, so hard. Manipulation is tough to rise over, she knows that. “I think you’re right.”

David smiles, bringing his mug to his lips. “I’m always right.”

She exhales deeply, thankful for the mood change. “I take it back.”

“D’aww, don’t be sour,” he teases, “you’ll learn to be this great one day. I’ll mentor you.”

Blake’s lips turn up at the corners, and she lifts her cup to her mouth with both hands before it can show for too long. “Cocky old man.”

Things are always lighthearted there, at that bookstore. The Pensive Gentleman. It’s been her favorite one from the start. She can sit there and smile, drinking tea with an old man who makes lighthearted conversation come easily. He’s like a grandfather, but- better. He gives her books, tells her stories and jokes. They have little talks about Blake’s latest novels, novels he’s undoubtedly read; he’s read nearly every book in the store. She stays until midnight, helps him close. Everything is calm. 

Everything was calm.

  
  


\----------

  
  


“Are you sure you even know where this place _is_ , Ruby?” 

Yang walks down the sidewalk with her phone up to her ear, skimming business names as she strolls by them with an impossible sense of nonchalance. Chilling wind brushes past her if there’s no stranger to do it instead, and the sky is dark and dim, void of stars. 

Just an hour ago, Yang’s younger sister had sent her out to grab a book for her- Ruby couldn’t do it because she’d been too busy studying for an upcoming exam. It didn’t go as planned, however; Yang ended up getting lost and needing to call Ruby for directions. It’s been twenty minutes since the call started, and Yang’s still empty handed. 

“Yes!” Ruby shrills, “I went there like, two months ago!”

Yang laughs, the breeze picks it up and carries it along. “Okay, okay, calm down. I’ll find it.”

“It’s important!” Ruby reminds her. “I need it as soon as possible, I have a meeting tom-”

“-orrow,” Yang finishes. “I know. You’ll have the book for your meeting, I’ll be sure of it.”

The other end is silent. 

“C’mon, count on me, Rubes,” Yang insists, squinting at a shop further down the street. “You have my word.”

“I believe you,” the younger one says. “I think it should be-”

The sentence goes unfinished. Instead of any further speaking, Yang hears a _thump_ , followed by the wobbly sound of multiple books falling from a decent height. Ruby whines something along the lines of “you’ve _got_ to be kidding me!” before the line goes quiet.

“That’s one way to end a call,” Yang murmurs, shaking her head with a fond smile. 

Ruby’s not usually so wound up, everyone who knows her knows that. She’s just been incredibly nervous for her combat exams coming up. Combat is really the only class she genuinely looks forward to, and she’s one book short for the meeting coming up tomorrow. The least Yang could do was agree to grabbing it for her. Besides- Yang loves her sister, more than anything. For years, Ruby’s success has been Yang’s top priority. She wants to see her sister make it. She knows she will.

It’d be a lot fucking easier if buildings weren’t so damn close together in this area, though. New York is crowded, Yang knows that by now, but she did _not_ expect Brooklyn to be this annoying on foot.

“How many bookstores are even _open_ right now?” she murmurs to herself, picking up her pace. “It’s almost ten.”

The wind blows again, pushing Yang’s hair around in slow sweeps, as if the air had gotten curious as to whether or not her hair was made of pure gold or something else. She doesn’t have a jacket on, but that’s alright- she’s never been too affected by the cold anyway, and it’s only November. 

Yang’s never had much of a reason to go to bookstores. She’s never really been one for books at all, especially since moving to Harlem with Ruby a couple of months ago. Yang’s focus has been working, making money, helping them afford their apartments and helping Ruby with her college needs. She can’t do that while reading a book. 

She prefers music over anything. Movies and music. Things she can listen to, take in while she works. They don’t require her full attention, she can multitask and not have to go back and reread a whole paragraph because she’d accidentally lost focus.

She loves stories, adores their characters and the way they’re created. But she doesn’t have time to read. She works too much, moves too much, worries too much about what’s going on around her to enjoy what she skims over. She’s tried audio books, but those didn't work as expected.

She runs her hand through her hair, fingers through the tangles, and beams to herself when she finally notices the store she’s been searching for. The Pensive Gentleman. (She won’t mention how it’s fifteen minutes away from where Ruby told her to go.)

Yang can tell how small it is from the outside. The windows take up the whole entrance wall, but curtains hide what it looks like inside. Warm lighting does peak through the fabric, though, as well as underneath the door. Ruby had said it was cute and cozy, and she’s normally right about those things.

Upon walking in, it’s completely clear how right Ruby was. It is a small store, yes, but it’s simple and relaxing. An immediate change of pace from the things Yang is used to seeing, like her bedroom and store.

There are old, wooden bookshelves lined from the front wall to the back wall, each one just far enough apart for a person to walk between. Random lamps are scattered around, some sitting on top shelves and others sitting on side tables placed periodically throughout the space, but it fits. The lighting is dim and comforting. It feels like heat. Like warm hands holding cold hands. There’s a large, olive green chair in the corner between two bookshelves, with a decent sized dent in the cushion. It looks like home.

There’s a counter right when you walk in, though it’s not the first thing Yang notices. A woman sits in front of it, on an awkward looking stool undoubtedly too crooked to be comfortable. Her hair is long and black, and- soft, probably. Definitely soft. She’s drowning in the violet knit sweater she’s wearing, and she’s holding a green mug with both hands.

And then she turns her head. Meets Yang’s gaze. Freezes for a moment. Parts her lips, closes them. 

Yang stops working. Soaks the woman’s expression up, lets it run through her veins, releases it with her breath, does it again. Her eyes are golden and Yang wants to hide in them. Her lips look soft and Yang wants to touch them. Her neck is smooth, bare, and Yang wants to paint it. She wants to make art. But how can you make art out of a masterpiece?

Blake offers Yang a brief smile that says ‘s _orry for catching your eye’_. 

Yang wishes it’d said _‘hello’_. 

  
  


\----------  
  
  


Things definitely aren’t calm anymore. 

Blake’s never been so close to simultaneously vomiting and laughing. She’s never been good at eye contact, not since an old ex of hers. It makes her nervous, makes her want to crawl out of her own skin. But this time- fuck. She’d do anything not to look away.

It sounds stupid, of course it does. Drinking tea in a bookstore near midnight only for a fucking goddess in a flannel to walk in and stare at you like you’re the last thing on earth. It’s impossible, it is, yet it’s _happening_. 

It’s happening and Blake doesn’t know what to do, because her books never prepared her for this. They said when you make eye contact with the One, everything slows down and feels okay. 

Not to insinuate that Yang’s _the One_ , but that is _not_ what’s happening. Not in the slightest. 

The moment Blake turns her head, meets Yang’s gaze- everything melts. Her skin, her muscles, her bones- it’s all gone, and she’s bare on top of the stool in which she sat. 

She’s hyper aware of everything. Of the way she slouches a little too far over her mug. Of the way her sweater hangs off of one shoulder. Of the way she forgets to fucking _speak_ like she’s never done it before. Like she hasn’t spent the past three years reading words. Of the way she only offers a small smile, as an apology for her inability to function.

Yang is fucking ethereal. Her hair sits wild on her head, wavy and messy and so bright it looks to be made out of the sun itself. Her eyes are wide, lilac, and perfect to drown in. Perfect to disappear in. Her lips are parted, just barely, and they look like _satin_. Her flannel drapes over her body like it’s meant to be there, like she was born with it on, like it’s shaped around her to show exactly what kind of creature she is. 

Yang’s so beautiful, mythology would claim she’s deadly, and Blake wouldn’t care. She’d stare into her eyes anyway, and turn to ash with only the thought; _Please. I didn’t look at her long enough._

Blake looks for a while. Looks until her heart hammers in her chest, sounding a lot like music, and even more like a warning. 

“Hello!” David’s voice brings her out of her trance, and it seems to startle Yang a bit, too. “I wasn’t expecting any customers this late.”

Blake turns her gaze back to her mug, watching her reflection in her tea. She watches the liquid swirl, watches it twist her nose and eyes into inhuman shapes, and thinks about how the stranger at the door would look just as breathtaking if her face twisted the same way.

Yang laughs; the sound is smooth, even. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I need to pick up a book for my sister, it shouldn’t be long.”

 _No_ , Blake thinks. _Please be long._

David asks what Yang is looking for, works with her for a few minutes to get an accurate author name out of “Seb Inett”, and tells her he’s going to check the back room. Yang laughs a few times, and Blake would replay that sound in her head forever if she could, and if it didn’t make her want to vomit. 

Things are quiet for a couple minutes before Yang’s voice sounds again. “This is a nice place. Do you work here?”

Blake picks her head up, turns it to see Yang leaning against the wall so nonchalantly, it’s almost an insult. “No, I don’t. I just come here a lot.” She’s surprised at how steady her voice sounds.

“You ever get used to that thing?” Yang asks, nodding at the stool Blake sits on. 

“Bone structure adjusted to fit it nicely,” she deadpans. “Makes walking a bit weird though.”

Yang grins, showing nearly perfect teeth. They’re almost as white as snow. Blake wonders if her mouth is cold, scolds herself. “I hope it’s not too troublesome.”

“No, not really. Aching hip is much easier to deal with than an upset David.”

Blake’s response seems to stir up another topic, one she didn’t think would matter; names. Bile rises in her throat, tastes like rose petals.

“My name is Yang, by the way.”

 _God, even her name is beautiful_. Blake exhales quietly, offering a small smile- one that comes as a surprise to both of them. “Hi, Yang.”

Yang waits expectantly for one minute, two minutes, three. Nothing but silence ensues, and that’s when she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth lifting again. “What am I supposed to call you?”

Blake shrugs, takes a long sip of her tea, wishing it was warm enough to bring the heat in her cheeks back down to her throat, to her stomach.

“Gertrude.” 

Blake chokes, but doesn’t feel refreshed after she breathes in again. Her lungs are tight, bending underneath her heart’s pressure as it pounds. “ _Gertrude_ ?”

“Gertrude,” Yang says, obviously content with her idea. “I’ll call you Gertrude.”

Blake grins, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“You don’t even know me,” Yang shoots back. 

_I wish I did._ “I don’t need to, I can tell.”

“What, do you read people or something?”

Blake shrugs. “Something like that.”

“Read me.”

“Read you?”

Yang pushes off the wall and walks to the counter, opting to lean against that instead, looking down at Blake as she talks. Blake’s heart freezes, rises, sits in her mouth. Yang’s eyes pierce through every atom in the way of Blake’s. “Read me.”

“Annoying.” Her voice is flat, but she can tell her amusement is visible. And that doesn’t bother her.

Yang laughs, brushing a few strands of golden hair behind her ear before they fall toward her face. “Wow, you think so?”

Blake takes another sip of her tea, ignoring how cold it is, using it as an excuse to breathe, calm her nerves. “I know so,” she replies afterward. “I can’t stand to look at you.”

“Yet you’re sure doing a lot of it.”

Blake’s heart stops again. It’s sitting on her tongue, now, she can feel it. She inhales, convinces her veins to loosen up, begs her voice to be steady. It is. “It’s like watching a car wreck.” She shrugs.

“Yikes,” Yang says, but Blake swears she sees her eyes sparkle once. “Must have bad reviews, if you insult all your customers.”

“Customers? Were you going to pay?”

“I was considering it.” Yang looks around the room, feigning boredom. “You lost my service.”

“That’s not how it works,” Blake replies. 

“It is now. _And_ I’m giving you a bad Yelp review.”

Blake plasters a frown over her lips. “That’ll ruin my score.”

Yang only replies, “Good.”

The air in the room is light, but it turns thick the moment it passes through Blake’s nose, and she doesn’t know if it’s because she’s nervous, or because she’s not. Yang’s standing there, a foot away from her, and they’re bantering, watching each other, as if they hadn’t just met. As if they’ll ever meet again.

David finally returns, holding a textbook that’s _got_ to be 400 pages. He sees them so close, drops the book on the counter and raises an eyebrow. “Is Miss Belladonna bothering you?”

Blake can see Yang’s lips turn upward in the corner of her eye, and a part of her relaxes. The other part is screaming sirens. 

“Miss Belladonna?” Yang asks, her smile taking on a new politeness. “Definitely. Ruined my night.”

“You chose to come here,” Blake retorts, hiding her smile in her mug again. “This is your fault.”

“She told me I look like a car wreck,” Yang states, matter-of-factly. 

“You’re the one who came here looking like that,” Blake replies, though her throat aches against the words because, fuck, Yang is anything but a wreck.

“I’ll look better next time, then.”

 _Next time._ _Next time. Next time._ “I’ll believe it when I see it.” _Next time_. 

David looks between the two women and grins, knowingly. He knows, he always does. Even before Blake knows herself. That’s just how he is. “One forty,” is all he says. 

Yang seems surprised, eyes wide as she pulls her wallet out of her back pocket. “ _One forty_?” 

“You didn’t go to college, did you?” Blake asks, tilting her head. She’d spent thousands on hardcovers in college, and she’d never forget the horror of needing to buy another, or the way boss level music would play in her head whenever she couldn’t find her debit card at the payment desk.

Yang shakes her head, pulling money from the leather and counting. “No, I didn’t. Worked straight out of high school.”

Blake doesn’t reply, instead bites her tongue to keep her curiosity at bay. They don’t know each other, and they’re not going to. They’ll probably never see each other again. No need to get personal.

Yang hands a few bills to David and grins as he hands her the textbook. “Thank you! My sister would’ve killed me if I’d gotten this any later.”

Blake eyes the book, notices a bunch of metals and weapons on the cover. “What class is that for, anyway?”

Yang shrugs. “Some combat class. She’s learning to fix weapons and put them together. It started off as a hobby when she was in high school, so you can imagine her surprise when she found out it was an elective.”

“I’m sure she was thrilled.”

“Incredibly, she bounced for three whole days.” Yang turns away from the counter and looks down at Blake. “It was nice meeting you.. Belladonna.” The surname sounds like utter _heaven_ when it leaves her mouth, and Blake doesn’t even think to give her first name in its place. 

_Say it again_ . “Wish I could say the same to you, Yang.” _Say it again._

“A modern day tragedy,” Yang agrees, her lips pulling back into yet another effortless smile that’ll keep Blake up for _days_ without sleep. “Goodnight.”

And with that, the door opens and closes, and everything is quiet.

Blake misses Yang’s voice. She wants to get up, wants to follow her. Wants to say; _I’m sorry. You’re not annoying, I’d listen to you talk forever. You’re not impossible, you’re anything but. You’re not a wreck, you’re beautiful. I can stand to look at you, I never wanted to look away. I’d pay to see your smile again. I’d pay to hear you call me ‘Belladonna’ again. Please, come back tomorrow._

But she doesn’t. Instead, she brings her knees up to her chest, sips her cold tea again, and tries to figure out how many Redbull she’ll need to get through tomorrow.

  
  


\----------  
  
  


Blake pictures lights as she fails to sleep that night, belonging to Christmas trees and clubs and traffic signals and danger signs. Her bed feels empty, her blanket too big, and the city too fucking quiet.

Yang thinks about the olive green chair as she showers before bed. Wonders how many people had to have sat in it for it to indent that way, and why they’re all undoubtedly Blake. She hopes Blake will be there tomorrow. 

Yang's never had a reason to go to a bookstore. Until now.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick thank you to my editor oliver who isnt my friend at all he just edits my work. thats why i keep him around . he tells me to fix things and i do unless they are dashes because in that case i am a lost cause and he knows htis but tells me anyway. thakn you ily

Yang’s mornings usually start off slow and early. She wakes up at four, when everything is nearly silent, and she likes it that way. Everything is quiet, drowsy, and it feels like the pause between two songs when one ends. Things are dark, not too hard on her eyes, and she just has...  _ time.  _ The city’s clock stops ticking, nothing exists, and she can simply be. Without consequence. 

It’s even more beneficial on the days she’s scheduled to open the store. It gives her extra time to trip over every single thing on her bedroom floor. 

“Oh- fuck off,” she mumbles to herself, voice grainy from sleep, sounding like sand. She’s tripped over three shirts so far, and she swears she’ll die in some horrific accident at the hands of a yellow button-up. 

It’s her fault, she knows that. She  _ is _ the one who leaves everything all over the place, of course. She’s just so  _ busy _ all the time. Cleaning rarely crosses her mind. 

She works at Monocasco, a motorcycle shop in Queens, and she’s one of the only employees aside from her friend, Pyrrha, and some grumpy blond guy with a beard that Yang’s never had an interest in getting to know. She helps fix the bikes in the back, and fixing motorcycles can take a lot of time; especially when you’re one of the only people in the neighborhood who can do it. She’s in relatively high demand, if she does say so herself, and she’s proud of it. She’s glad she doesn’t get her hands dirty for nothing.

She takes up a lot of shifts, spends a lot of time working on motorcycles, and even plans on building one out of a bunch of parts she found a couple months ago. They’re piled in the corner of her apartment at the moment, a broken mess, but… she’ll get to it.

Yang spends more time at the shop than she does in her own apartment, really. It doesn’t bother her, though. It’s how she affords her place, and helps Ruby pay for hers, as well as some other stuff every now and again. 

It does get tiring, and Yang wishes her hands were a little smoother, but that’s okay. All she really wants is to help Ruby push forward, get to the place she wants to be. Ever since they were kids, Yang’s looked out for her little sister in place of her mother, and that kind of thing doesn’t really fade. She thought it would, once they left their father back in California, but it didn’t. It got stronger, actually.

Unlike the pipes above her sink. Those rattle often. It’s a little unsettling, but what can she do? She won’t have to pay for any damage if they burst, anyway. 

Yang yawns, joining her hands behind her head and stretching. Pressure pools at the middle of her spine, spreads toward her shoulder blades, disappears when she loosens up again. Her hair sits in a pile on top of her head, gnarled and knotted like she hasn’t brushed it in days. She pulls the tie out of it, let’s it fall around her shoulders as she walks to the bathroom mirror.

She looks a little tired, she always does, but it’s not horrible. She’s learned to run on smaller amounts of sleep, adjusted her eating habits to work with what she lacks. She drags her fingertips down her cheeks, rolls her neck, blinks the tired out of her eyes as she reaches for her toothbrush. 

Her toothpaste burns her mouth as she brushes, but she’s used to it. Cinnamon flavored toothpaste isn’t the easiest thing to get accustomed to, but she’s used it since she was small, and it’s grown on her. Her dad likes the flavor in everything, though. Floss, coffee, hot chocolate, you name it. Yang’s never been as much of a fanatic, but she definitely prefers cinnamon over spearmint, and she’s a  _ sucker _ for cinnamon tea.

_ Tea.  _ Yang spits into the sink, rinses her toothbrush and puts it back in its holder. Her lips pull back into a soft smile as she remembers the night before, remembers the green mug in a certain stranger’s hand and the distinct scent of bergamot clinging to the air like its sole purpose was to build the atmosphere into something she’d never let go.  _ Belladonna _ .

Belladonna is right. Yang swears that was the most beautiful woman she’s seen in a really, really long time. Her almond skin, her golden eyes... she didn’t smile much, but fuck, Yang doesn’t even have to try to picture it again, it’s been burned into her memory. If angels were real, Belladonna would be one. She is one, she  _ has _ to be. 

Nothing has ever looked more like belonging than that woman in that book store. Even on the spine-twisting stool, she looked like she’d been  _ born _ just to sit there and breathe, and it’s driving Yang crazy. She held the mug like it belonged in her hands, blushed like the red was at home in her cheeks, laughed like her sole purpose was to fill the air with pure, buzzing, unforgettable electricity. 

Belladonna is gorgeous. Breathtaking. Thrown together in an effortless, lazy way that somehow looks like everything right in the world combined. 

She looks like someone who can stop the earth from turning, and she  _ has _ to know it, but she carries herself as if everything in existence has told her otherwise. Hides her smile like it’s something to be weary of. Keeps her hands close to her like her touch is dangerous.

She is both the most confident and the most nervous person Yang has ever seen, and Yang doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that, but she knows she’s going to figure it out. She has to.

After she picks up her phone, that is. It’d started ringing while she was deep in thought, the shrill tune bouncing off of every wall in the small apartment. 

Yang steps away from the mirror, tries to find her cell by sound, trips over a pair of orange Converse on the floor and gives them the finger. The place is so little, yet her phone always manages to find a new hiding spot when she’s not looking; underneath her pillow, between her bed and her nightstand, stuck inside of a hiking boot- and apparently on her windowsill.

She manages to pick up on the last ring, exhaling her greeting. “What?”

The voice on the other end laughs, and it sounds a lot like a song. “Well, hey to you, too. Are you coming in?”

Yang smiles sheepishly at the reply, thankful expressions aren’t audible. “Sorry, Pyrrha. Hi. I just woke up, I’m scheduled to open.”

“Again?” Pyrrha’s voice doesn’t quite match the question; she’s not surprised. 

“I needed to make extra for a few bike parts, you know opening pays more.” 

“Good point.” Yang grabs her hairbrush from the nightstand, running it through her hair as Pyrrha speaks. “Come shopping with me on Friday?”

“Friday?” That’s in six days. “Sure. Any reason?”

“Weeeellll, Jaune wants to take me out.”

“Oh?” Yang smiles. Jaune is Pyrrha’s boyfriend. They got together only a couple months ago, and god, the honeymoon phase hit hard.

“There’s this new restaurant in SoHo, he wants to bring me to the opening.”

“Sophisticated?” 

“I sure hope so. It’d be nice to get away from the grease and dust.”

“Ouch.” Yang smiles, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she brushes the back of her head. “I’ll remember that.”

“Sorry!” Pyrrha says, giggling. “You know I don’t mean anything rude by it. A break is lovely, once in a while.”

“I understand. You’re bad with tools, anyway.”

“I’m the one who taught you how to-”

“Nope! Not listening.”

“But-”

“Did you hang up? I can’t hear anything.”

Pyrrha huffs. “Are you coming, then?”

Yang takes the phone in her hand again, dropping her brush onto the bed and walking toward her closet. “Of course. Talk more about it in thirty?”

Pyrrha agrees, though she sounds as if she’d rather not wait to talk about it at all. 

When the line goes quiet, it feels like Yang’s apartment does, too. All the buzzing and creaking from the pipes above her go silent, and she feels completely alone. She takes shelter in the calm, burrows into it and curls up like it’s just second nature. It feels like seeing an ocean completely still. Definitely odd, out of the ordinary, but safe. No risk with the tides, no fear of drowning in repetitive noises that drive her a little bit crazy. Just breath. Hers.

_ This is it _ . She grabs a hoodie off of the rack in front of her, folding it over her arm.  _ This is why she wakes up so early. _

As Yang leaves through the front door that morning, a cat catches her eye, black and thin. It sits in the center of the sidewalk, watching her with curious eyes. They feel familiar, like the eyes of an old friend. Yang offers a gentle hand, but the cat bolts before she gets too close.

  
  


\----------

  
  


"I just don't understand why she made the deadline so soon, we've barely had the piece for a  _ week _ .” 

“High demand, I guess?”

Blake is sitting across from Weiss, watching her scowl so hard at the laptop in front of her, she nearly feels bad for it. They both work for a fashion magazine, Darling Weekly- Blake being the copy editor, Weiss being a general writer- and the head just shortened the deadline for the first piece in one of next month’s issues. 

Blake doesn’t really mind, she doesn’t come in at this part of the process anyway, but she understands how stressful it can be for Weiss. She’s watched her pace her bedroom for hours straight, going over rough drafts and criticizing every word she puts down mere seconds after she does it. More often than not, those nights end in Blake sleeping over, convincing the writer to take a break before she has an aneurysm. 

“Demands never shortened our span from three weeks to one.” 

Blake watches Weiss’ fingers fly across her keyboard, barely tapping one key before moving to the next. It almost makes her nervous, the way annoyance radiates like licking flames. “I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“ _ Coco _ ?” Weiss laughs bitterly, shaking her head once. A few strands of hair fall toward her face. She’d come into the restaurant with her hair down instead of pulled up into its usual ponytail, and that’s how Blake knew she meant business. Rapid, overwhelmed business. 

“Yes, Coco,” Blake replies, leaning back in her chair and looking out the window beside their table. She watches the sun beam down on the concrete, watches a man in a suit trip over his own foot. “Be nice. She’s not a rival, she’s our head.”

Weiss scowls again, but it’s softer this time. She never tries to be hurtful, knows Coco’s not out to get her. She just tends to harden when she’s anxious, and pushing an article deadline is an amazingly effective way to worry the hell out of a magazine’s staff team.

It’s a good thing Blake’s as close to Weiss as she is, or she probably would’ve been a bit put off by the negativity. They’ve known each other since high school, though, and she’s grown used to the defensive pessimism Weiss uses to hide the fact that she’s a person with emotions. It’s how she copes, always has been, and it gets much more tolerable once you learn about the mess that is the Schnee family.

Blake crosses her arms over her chest, watching legs walk past the window, wondering how comfortable the woman wearing bright green corduroy pants is. 

She’s trying to, at least. She’s really trying to, but she’s struggling, because the second her eye catches something shining in the sunlight, all she can think about is Yang’s hair. 

It’s pathetic, she knows it is. She spoke to a woman for half an hour the night before and now she can’t even see  _ nature _ without thinking about her. Which is understandable, considering the fact that she looks like she controls it from within the sky anyway. The way angry gods thread the sea through their fingers and the wind with their voices. But it  _ shouldn’t _ be understandable, and Blake  _ shouldn’t _ think of her that way, because she doesn’t even know her and she never will. 

She won’t see Yang again. 

_ No, please. I will. _

Yang was just saying she’d come back eventually. 

_ No, she wasn’t. _

Because that’s always how these things go. 

_ Not this time. _

And even if it isn’t, Blake can’t risk it, anyway. 

_ Why? _

Because she doesn’t do relationships. 

_ I want to try. _

Because they always go wrong. 

_ What if it doesn’t? _

It will. 

_ No. _

Because Blake can’t do anything right. 

_ Please. _

And she brings hurt wherever her feet fall. 

_ Stop. _

And--

“Blake? Hello?” Weiss’ voice pulls her out of her own head, grabs her by the collar and holds her above the surface. “Are you having a stroke or something?”

Blake picks her head up, sits straight, looks Weiss in the eyes and tries to seem calm. “No. No, sorry. I’m okay. I spaced out.”

“No shit,” Weiss replies, shutting her computer and joining her hands in her lap. “You’ve been doing that a lot, this afternoon.”

Blake fights a grimace, knows she’s caught, tries to play it off anyway. “Yeah, just- I’m overthinking the deadline.”

“Right.” Weiss looks her up and down.

Blake nods, offering a less than convincing smile. 

“Fess up, Belladonna.”  _ Shit. _ “I’ve known you long enough to notice when you’re stuck in your head again. You always do that weird thing with your eyebrows.” Weiss pauses for a moment and her face softens. “Is it... y’know?”

“No!” Blake says, shaking her head. “No, it’s not him.”  _ Not really. _ “It’s- complicated.”

Weiss is  _ visibly _ relieved. Things get rough when Blake starts thinking about him again, and it’s always rather hard to bring her back to the present. Back to okay. “Go on, then. Brunch isn’t over, we’ve still got fifteen.”

“Don’t I have a get out of jail free card or something?”

Weiss glowers, though her eyes remain soft. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. I can just tell it’s eating you up quicker than Nora eats the donuts in the staff room.”

A small smile slips over Blake’s lips, and her shoulders relax just a little.  _ This is a safe place. Weiss is safe. _

“I met someone yesterday,” she says. 

An eyebrow raises, white and curious. “Met someone?”

Blake nods, starts listing off events as if that’s the only way her brain will allow her to tell them. “At the bookstore. The one I’ve been going to. She came in looking for a textbook. She smiled at me. We talked. About nothing, really, and I insulted her. She-”

“You  _ insulted her _ ?” Weiss looks utterly dumbfounded, which says a lot. She’s not easily surprised. “Why on earth would you do that? Did she say something first?” Blake shakes her head. “Then why the  _ hell _ ?”

Blake’s cheeks flush red as she sinks back into her chair, silently willing it to suck her up, bring her anywhere but that table. “I don’t know! It just happened!”

Weiss stares. Her jaw would be slack if it were proper etiquette. “What the  _ fuck _ , Blake?”

“I don’t  _ know! _ ” She wants to scream, she’s so embarrassed. “It wasn’t serious or anything! It was lighthearted, she knew that. She  _ laughed _ . It’s  _ fine _ .”

Weiss nearly deflates like a balloon when she breathes out. “You scared the  _ shit _ out of me. I thought you called her a bitch because she  _ breathed _ at you or something. Fuck.”

It’s Blake’s turn to scowl this time. “I’m not  _ you _ .”

“Shut up.”

“ _ Anyway. _ We joked around a little. She said she’d come back another time.”

Weiss sits up, leans forward. “Another time? Like, tomorrow?”

Blake shrugs. “I don’t know.”  _ I hope so. _

Arms cross. “Is she cute?”

_ Yes. Yes, yes, yes.  _ “Average.”

“Average?” Weiss asks, her voice dripping with skepticism. 

Blake opens her mouth to talk, but nothing comes out. Her heart has made its home on her tongue once again. Maybe it’s for the better, though; she’s scared that if she talks, all that’ll come out is soft, panicked yelling. 

The silence is all the confirmation Weiss needs. “I fucking knew it. You’re crushing.”

The gears in Blake’s head stop turning like something’s in the way. They grind against each other, slowing down, squeaking. Something crunches and someone needs to hit the emergency switch. Someone needs to call an operator. Someone needs to yell for help. “What?”

“You’re crushing. You have to be. No one turns that red over just anyone.”

“Shut up.” 

“Fine, act like I’m wrong. Repress yourself or whatever. I’ll just tell you I told you so.”

“Don’t talk to me about repression, Weiss. You’re literally a lesbian with a boyfriend.”

Weiss frowns, crosses her arms, looks away. “I’m working on it. Besides, that has nothing to do with you and whatever stranger walked into your personal word kink dungeon or whatever.”

Blake snorts. “‘Word kink dungeon’? Really?”

“I’m not  _ wrong _ .” 

“Give me the check, asshole.”

“It’s right in front of you, bitch.”

A grin plays at the corner of Blake’s mouth and Weiss mirrors the expression. They’re thankful for each other, and they both know Weiss has a point. 

Maybe.   
  


\----------

  
  


Blake doesn’t read at the store that night. She tried to, she really did, but she couldn’t  _ focus _ . She’d see the words but couldn’t assign them definitions. It felt like reading the dictionary through wet glass, and it really grew upsetting. 

Thank heavens David noticed her frustration, because she’d probably be tearing her hair out if he hadn’t. He’d asked her to help him stock the shelves, make sure the books were in order and that none of them were upside down, and she was more than grateful for the distraction. Still, she finds herself looking expectantly toward the door whenever it opens, swallowing her heart when she sees only unfamiliar faces.

“Thank you for the help,” David says, still a couple bookshelves away. “I haven’t had a hand around here in quite some time.”

“Of course.” Blake smiles softly, tapping book spines as she counts. “I’m always open to helping, you just need to ask.”

David chuckles, and Blake just knows his eyes are wrinkling at the corners like they always do. “You act like getting you away from a good novel is easy.”

“I’m sure it’s not too hard.”

“Oh, it’s terrible.” He drops a box of books to the floor, exhaling at the chance to relax. “I’ve tried. You rarely respond. It’s like your soul is sucked into the story the second your eyes hit the page.”

Blake laughs, crouches down to check the lower shelves. “That’s certainly one way to phrase it.”

There’s a decent bit of silence before David speaks again, much softer than before. “My wife was a lot like that.”

Blake lifts her head. David doesn’t speak much of his wife, just the occasional comment every now and again. Blake’s not sure if it’s because it’s private, or because it’s painful, but she’s never thought to push. She respects it. She understands the way memories can eat at a person’s mind and hold their heart steady at the same time.

“She loved books,” he continues. “Was always reading when I came home. Read until I insisted on turning the bedside lamp off, and even then she’d try to keep going. She’s why this place is here.”

“The bookstore?”

“Yes, this was her idea. She’d always wanted to own one, own a place where the kids could come to learn and the tired could come to rest, take a break from the trouble outside. She talked about it so much.” Blake stands up as she listens to him speak, continuing to count spines as she makes her way toward him. “She was here when it opened. The lamps were her idea. Scattering them around and all. It reminded her of home.”

It’s quiet after that. Not the bad kind, though. The kind that stands with thoughtfulness, not with awkwardness or anxiety. They’re both thinking, making their own connections. Waiting for the air to shift and prepare for another set of words. 

If the front door opens again, Blake doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on breathing. Feeling her lungs fill, letting her chest empty, wondering if David’s wife can smell the bookstore’s comfort the way she can. Feel the bookstore’s kindness the way she can. 

The air moves, and Blake’s voice is gentle. “I’m sorry she couldn’t see how successful it’s become.”

David laughs from his belly, though the sound is laced with something dim. “She can. Her words are written in these books, her laugh within the walls. She sits in your chair, drinks my tea, watches us laugh as if she’d never left. She knows the both of us better than we know ourselves. She’s always around.”

Blake turns the corner, sees David standing there with his hand resting over his heart. Like he’s checking on it, expecting it to not be there, to have hopped out and walked away. “How do you know?” 

The question isn’t meant to be rude, just curious, and Blake’s glad it’s taken the right way. “How couldn’t I?” David responds. “When you love someone, Miss Belladonna, you know when they’re around. You know where they’ve been. You know where they’re going; you.”

Blake leans back against a bookshelf, letting her arms cross casually. “Yeah.” She thinks for a moment, about what to say. Of gold, of lilacs, of teeth so white they look like snow. Of the way the atoms in the air vibrate like they never have before a certain person’s introduction, and in a way that will never change. A way that will last. And she’s not sure whether to be glad or terrified.

David raises an arm, adjusts his cap, and says, with a smug smile, “You’ll see. Come on, water’s boiling.”

Blake doesn’t respond, only watches him walk back toward the counter, then turns her head toward the front door. It’s closed, and it has been for quite a bit. It doesn’t ring when it opens or anything, but it squeaks. Loud. It tends to be enough to grab anyone’s attention. It would’ve grabbed her attention.

Her stool is as crooked as ever when she sits down. It’s nice how familiar the position is. Like finding comfort in the way cigarette smoke smells because of a kind hearted grandparent. Like loving the rain because its sound is enough to distract you from its temperature. She’ll deal with the way her hip aches because it feels like home.

“What are we thinking tonight?” David asks, pulling open his cabinet. “Anything in mind?”

Blake rests her elbow on the counter, her chin in her palm. “Blackcurrant? If you have any left.”

“I’d be surprised if I did,” he teases, “You drink it more often than I wear this hat.”

Blake laughs, the sound warms the room. “I can’t help it, it’s my favorite.”

“I can  _ tell _ .” David pulls a tin jar off of a shelf.

He opens it as Blake turns in her seat, facing the front door. She watches the wood it’s made out of, looks around for dips and bends and breaks. Observes the doorknob, squints to check for fingerprints, reflections, a sign that it might turn as she stares. 

She waits, ignores the way her heart rises with the heat in her face and the way her stomach twists and turns. She works herself up sometimes, convinces herself the door will open if she counts down; frowns when it doesn’t, when she’s well past the count of ten and going onto twenty, thirty, forty.

David sneaks glances at her every now and again, watching the way she leans toward the door with so much intensity it looks like she’ll fall. 

He knows she’s waiting for Yang. Waiting for a chance.

She doesn’t.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Grease is always so annoying to wash off, Yang knows that well, but for some reason, the process seems more tedious tonight than it ever has before. The shop’s sink only runs cold, but they have a nearly endless supply of Dawn dish soap, so it makes up for it. Kind of. 

Yang sticks her tongue out as she scrubs the dirt from her fingers, nearly counting down the seconds until her skin is as clean as it’ll get. 

Normally, she’ll head home and shower the moment her shift ends, wash every visible bit of oil and grime off of every place her hands can reach. It’s not a necessity, she doesn’t really  _ need _ to do it considering the fact that she usually only dirties her arms, but she does it anyway. It helps her calm down for the night. Besides, it’s where she does most of her thinking. 

But there’s no time for thinking tonight. Yang has an appointment. A book to pick up. A person to see. And it’s already ten. 

A deep voice sounds from behind her, and it brings dread the second it hits her ears. “Oh, Xiao Long.” 

“Hey.” She shakes her hands out and turns off the water, grabbing a couple of paper towels from the dispenser behind her.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here so late, but it’s good that I did.”

Yang fights a grimace. “Why’s that?” Raid sirens go off, traffic lights flash red. A bomb’s inbound, and it’s going to ruin her night in  _ 3… 2… 1…  _

“I need to talk to you about your schedule, actually.” 

_ Boom _ . “Sure, what about it?” Yang turns, leaning against the wooden slab they use for a counter. Her tools hit each other behind her back, startle her a little.

“I need you to start working night shifts. Just for a little bit, a week tops. I’ve got things to take care of around the city and I need someone to watch the shop.”

_ No. _ Her plans. Her sweet visits to the bookstore. Belladonna. “Again?”

“Yes, again.” He doesn’t take offense to her tone, but she wouldn’t blame him if he did. “I’ll raise your pay by seven.”

_Fuck_. That much of a raise, however temporary, would get Ruby the rest of her books for next semester. 

Yang bites her lip, looks past the man and at the wall behind him. She thinks of doors, of green chairs, of bergamot. But she also thinks of Ruby. Of how much time she spends working on meeting her goal. Of how determined she is. Of her mother.

“Alright,” Yang says. “Fine.”

The man smiles, and it makes Yang want to turn away. “Awesome. You’re on for tonight.” He drops the store’s keys on the workbench next to the door.

Yang watches him leave the shop and sighs. Pulls her hair up above her head and ties it lazily. 

Belladonna will have to wait.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake tries to stay late. She tries to stay past closing, tries to cling to the idea that  _ maybe _ whoever she’s waiting for will come. But she doesn’t. 

On the drive home, she watches headlights. She chews her lip, makes sure to keep her head on track, makes sure she knows who’s lip it is, and decides. 

Decides she’s not going to wait up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty for all the encouraging reactions and comments on the first chapter btw lmao they made me cry
> 
> i hope yall are vibing


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mention of alcoholism

New York grew cold in the span of a week.

Blake kind of likes turtlenecks. She has since she was a teenager. She likes the way they cover her up, hold her like she’s something to be hidden, protect her from curious wind doing everything it can to brush across a single centimeter of bare skin. They’re comforting, feel like warm arms and fireplaces and kettle water. She prefers them over a lot of other things.

That’s one of the reasons she favors autumn, really. Specifically the end of it, when the temperature drops just enough to use as an excuse for wool sweaters and jeans and boots. Her turtlenecks have a purpose, then. She’s allowed to wear them without questioning. Not that she’d wear them during the hotter seasons, anyway — a covered neck and sweat don’t mix. 

Weiss, however, wouldn’t be caught _dead_ wearing something that covers her neck. Not something that bulky. She’s admitted she likes the way Blake wears them, the way they hang loosely over her body, a size larger than needed, but she’d also never wear them that way herself. There are certain lines she refuses to cross, and turtlenecks? Turtlenecks are one of them. 

Blake likes to tease her about it. Tells her she’s just being close-minded, negative without reason. Likes to sneak them into her shopping cart whenever she leaves her computer open by accident, and laughs when she wrinkles her nose after finalizing her purchase and discovering the addition. 

She’d done it last night, actually. Weiss had been stress shopping, looking through bags and shoes and jackets to cope with Coco’s deadline choice, and Blake struck when she’d stepped away to grab another glass of water. Added the first turtleneck she could find- lime green and rough- and laughed to breathlessness at Weiss’ panicked disgust.

 _You’re lucky I love you,_ Weiss had said. _You’d be out by now if I didn’t._

Blake had only smiled, nudged her with her elbow. _I know_.

“It looks pretty cute from the outside.” 

It’s the morning after now, and the duo’s walking toward a store in Manhattan for a piece to go in the Darling issue releasing in a few weeks. Coco had asked them to review a pretty trendy boutique called _Saphir_ and write a review on the clothes and hospitality for a fourth page feature. Weiss had excitedly obliged, eager for any hands-on action.

A white ponytail bobs, accompanied with a satisfied hum. “It does. Much more promising than the place we went to last month.”

Blake chuckles at the memory, shaking her head. “It was new. They were trying to figure things out.”

“Are you kidding? It was a _mess._ I don’t even think they’re still open.”

“They are,” Blake confirms. “Nora told me she ran into the cashier a couple days ago.”

Weiss tilts her head as she reaches for the boutique’s front door, pulling it open. “And?”

“He quit.”

Weiss laughs. “Of course.”

The store ends up being cute on the inside, too. Its walls are a soft blue color, fitting the birch flooring perfectly. Racks of clothing reach to the back wall from the front, interrupted by the occasional mannequin wearing some aesthetically pleasing display of a light dress and dark cover-up. It’s not the biggest store, but it has a second floor to make up for the size, and they decide they’ll check that out later if they need to. The area’s pretty crowded anyway, and the two women have to brush past multiple people in order to walk from aisle to aisle.

The cashier is nice, greeting them with a small wave and a bright smile. Lets them know she’s there if they need anything, like she _knows_ what they’re visiting for. Blake is appreciative of the kindness, and Weiss is appreciative of the manners; she has a thing for respectful people. 

The clothes aren’t too bad, either. Not entirely in season, considering the fact that it’s rather tough to wear shorts in fifty degree weather, but the styles are attractive and Weiss appreciates them. They shift through hangers, taking note of certain brands and logos, jotting things down in their notes apps whenever they see something worth remembering. They’ve done boutique reviews plenty of times, and it’s merely become routine. 

It’s silly, however, to assume the visit would be all work and no talk. It never is. That’s the catch when you work with a close friend; there’s always time to discuss personal matters, and neither party really has an excuse not to. 

Blake knew Weiss would probably bring it up again at some point, anyway. They’d only seen each other three times since the brunch at the beginning of the week, but there was undoubtedly time to talk about it when they were together, and she didn’t. Which isn’t surprising, really. Blake doesn’t talk about things. It’s not her. 

Which doesn’t stop Weiss from asking, of course. “Why are you doing that?”

Blake nearly fails to register the question. She looks up from her phone, stops pretending to catalogue things that really don’t matter to her at the moment. “What?”

Weiss’ arms are crossed, one hip jutting out as she peers at Blake through pale blue eyes. She’d probably pass as bored if they weren’t full of pure suspicion. “You’re doing that thing again.”

Blake grimaces internally, feels herself pull her eyebrows flat like that’ll change anything. She’s always been bad with her facial expressions. _Always_. It’s like her face exists only to betray her thoughts. 

“No, no,” Weiss says, letting a small laugh slip. “I caught you. You can’t hide it now.”

Blake huffs, shuts her phone off and tucks it into her back pocket. “This is cruel.”

“It’s not.”

“It _is._ I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter.”

A white eyebrow raises. “It definitely seems like it does.”

“It _doesn’t_ ,” Blake insists. 

But that’s the thing. It _does_ matter, and she wishes it didn’t, because she told herself she wouldn’t let it. She told herself she’d stop thinking about the complete stranger she spoke to _once_ , and that she’d stop being so sour over the fact that she never came back. 

She wasn’t _required_ to come back anyway. And it was stupid to assume she ever would. People say things they don’t mean all the time, break promises they don’t care for all the time. There’s no rule saying Yang had to keep her word, or that she even had to mean it. Blake knows that, knows it’s true. And it pisses her off. 

Kind of. She doesn’t think she’s _angry_. She’s not a particularly angry person. She just knows the emotion boils over her fill line in the same way anger does, and it’s easier to give it that label than it is to go searching through the very depths of her complicated mind to figure out what it should really be called.

Besides, it’s a good thing Yang never came back. That’s what Blake’s been telling herself, and she knows it’s true. Yang’s nice. She’s sweet, Blake can tell by the way she smiles. She seems kind. And she deserves much better than anything Blake has ever had to offer. Deserves much more than Blake has ever had to give.

Yang deserves _something._ Something she can’t stop thinking about, something that hides in everyday things and gives her little reminders of the lips she’s kissed and the smiles she’s created. She deserves something she can’t stop thinking about, something that feels intriguing and strange and comfortable and welcoming. She deserves an adventure, one with a happy ending, one where she finds the treasure and wins the prize and kisses the girl. She deserves _something_. 

And Blake isn’t something. She’s nothing. And she wants Yang to have more.

She also wants to stop fucking _thinking_ about this. About the way her head yearns for someone she hasn’t seen in six days, about the way her heart starts to beat whenever she thinks of a complete fucking stranger like it hadn’t beat before that, and about how much she wants to hold the fucking sun in her hands and kiss its lips and pull it against her chest. She wants to _stop_. 

"Fine." Weiss' voice pulls her back, reminds her where she is. "It doesn't. But you... you can tell me if it starts to."

Blake stays completely still for a few moments, doesn't ever think she'll move again. And then she does. Lets her shoulders drop, lets her face relax and her spine loosen up. "I know."

"Good."

Weiss turns back to the rack of clothing, her face hardening and her lips pursing. She does her best to offer Blake help whenever it seems needed, and she's really good at it. Even if she doesn't give advice, her reactions show what Blake should think about certain things. Weiss is complicated, but she always offers what she can. She just struggles when what she offers isn't accepted. That's what she needs to work on.

Blake, desperate for both a distraction and a topic change, speaks up again. “What about you?”

“Hm?” Weiss sounds disinterested. 

“What’s bothering you?” Weiss opens her mouth to speak, but Blake interrupts. “Don’t say ‘nothing’. Your nails are raw.”

Pale lips form a pout. “It’s like I’m rubbing off on you or something.”

Blake grins. “Right. You’re rubbing off on me after nine years of knowing each other. It just suddenly hit.”

Weiss scowls. “Quiet, you.” Blake watches her expectantly, waiting for her to keep going, and she sighs before she does. “Willow’s back in rehab.”

Blake’s mouth falls slightly. Weiss’ mother has struggled with alcoholism for _years_ . Blake can’t remember a single time when she’d gone to Weiss’ apartment and hadn’t seen her mom drinking _some_ variant of alcohol as a teenager. 

Every now and again, Weiss and her brother will convince her to go to a clinic, get the help she needs. She always agrees when they tell her it’ll fix their relationship. That they’ll be her kids again. That Weiss’ll call her “mom”. And still, more often than not, she doesn’t go through with it.

Weiss doesn’t cry in front of people, and yet Blake has watched her have full blown _panic attacks_ over her mother going missing after signing herself out of programs. Time after time after time. She’s held Weiss’ hand, wiped Weiss’ tears, and coached her through breathing while she struggled to do so herself. And it broke Blake’s heart every time. 

They never bring it up afterward, never talk about the incidents, but they don’t need to. Blake knows Weiss is grateful because Weiss lets her in, and Weiss knows Blake doesn’t mind because she stays.

Blake begins to sift through the hanging clothes in front of her and says, “What convinced her?”

As expected, Weiss does the same. “The same thing as usual. Promises, sentiment, reassurance.” Her voice sounds tired. Like she’s naming things she doesn’t even mean anymore.

Blake takes a jacket off of the rack, holds it up over Weiss’ torso; the best way to keep Weiss comfortable while she talks is to keep her busy. “Think she’ll stay this time?”

Weiss reaches for the jacket, holds it out so she can examine it herself. “Maybe.” It sounds like ‘no’. “She likes her new sponsor.” 

“Oh? Why’s that?” The jacket goes back onto the rack as Blake speaks, but the goal was reached; Weiss begins to look through the clothes herself, handing notable things to Blake. It’s a rapid and efficient process, and it’s a process that keeps her steady.

“He thinks—here, hold this— he thinks she has promise.” Her lips curl delicately over the last word, as if she doesn’t even want them touching the syllables. “Doesn’t realize how vicious the cycle is, that it’s been repeated five times.”

“You think so? I’d imagine he understands, being a sponsor and all.”

Weiss scowls. Not at the comment, but at a thought. “I hope he gets more realistic, then.”

Blake fights to keep her voice nonchalant, eyes widening at the fast growing pile of clothes in her arms. “How long are you giving it?”

“Three weeks, at best.”

“That’s longer than usual.”

“This would look so much better in purple,” Weiss murmurs. “It is, but there’s barely any thought behind it anymore.”

“It’s okay to hope she’ll get out of there the right way, you know.” Blake’s voice is soft. Quiet. Sounds like satin brushing over skin.

Weiss only freezes for a moment, but her voice wavers for longer. “I know. I always do.”

Things are quiet for a couple of minutes, aside from the sounds of metal hangers sliding along wooden bars. Blake knows it’s time to stop, time to switch the topic before Weiss dives too deep, so she brings up the only other thing on her mind.

“You ever want to get out of here?”

Weiss stops moving and looks at her, seemingly surprised. “What do you mean?"

“Like, out of New York. The city. Go to the forest or something.”

“Not particularly.”

Blake laughs at the way Weiss’ nose wrinkles, exhales lightly when a smile shows. “I’m not sure what I expected. You’re terrified of dirt.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Sure.”

Weiss swats at Blake’s shoulder, passing by her to reach another row of racks. “Seriously! I don’t mind dirt. It’s just the bugs. I’m allergic.”

“To all of them?” Blake raises an eyebrow, amusement written on her face. “Or just, y’know, the ones outside?”

“You’re a bitch. I’m going to fire you.”

Blake grins. “You can’t fire me, I don’t work for you.”

“I’m going to tell Coco to raise my position, and then I’m going to fire you.”

“Why not ask her to do it herself?”

“She would never. You’re the copy editor.”

“You could take my spot.”

“And lose my office? No way.” Weiss says it like it's the only logical response in the world.

The rest of the visit is easy. Simple. The duo picks through clothes, takes note of interesting brand and inventory choices. They discuss how the magazine piece’s panels will look, what jackets they’ll use in what pictures, whether or not they should include the designer pair of red heels they managed to pick up. 

They agree to stick a picture of them at the end of the article as they pay for the haul Weiss had gathered while she spoke. 

The cashier is nice, careful to make sure they’ve got all they’re looking for before ringing them up. She offers to look for discount codes if they need them, asks if Weiss needs the skirt she was looking at earlier in a smaller size. Weiss happily says she does, thanks her once as she walks away from the counter and toward what seems to be a back room.

The coworkers continue to chat as they wait for the new size, talking about their plans for the weekend— or lack thereof— and discussing what they’d rate the store out of ten. Weiss is aiming more for a six, thinking about the failure to keep inventory seasonal and the overall organization of the place, but Blake proposes an eight and a half, brings up how kind the cashier is and the way the mannequins seem to be styled accordingly.

In fact, she’s in the middle of explaining how much she liked the sweater a distant mannequin is wearing when Weiss sees _it._

Her hand automatically finds Blake’s forearm, grasps it firmly. Blake is understandably startled, pulling back a little bit and asking what the problem is, but Weiss doesn’t reply. She just keeps her grip, looking toward the door the cashier passed through as her foot begins to tap rapidly. 

“What’s wrong?” Blake asks, genuinely concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Weiss says, face hardened. 

“Are you sure?”

She doesn’t respond, instead picks her purse up off of the checkout desk and begins to lead Blake toward the entrance. 

“What... what about the clothes?” Blake’s question is less words, more confusion.

“I don’t care about the clothes. I want to leave.”

That’s all it takes for Blake to hush. If Weiss wants to leave _clothes_ behind, something’s up. Something that doesn’t need to be questioned, because she’d tell Blake if she felt it should to be talked about. 

Weiss doesn’t even brush past the people walking into the boutique, just walks straight into them instead, refusing to let them slow her down. Blake offers profuse apologies to each person they shove, but she’s not sure if they’re understandable with how fast she’s being pulled.

The air is cold once they step outside, hitting them both like a wall. It feels scary. Like something just tilted the Earth on its axis, and they’re much further away from the prime meridian than they should be. Like the cold isn’t a result of the weather, but a result of a threat. And it makes Blake’s heart drop to her stomach.

Weiss hails a taxi, curses loudly when the first three pass straight by her. She looks like she’s considering walking into the street and stopping traffic herself by the time one pulls up. 

She tears the door open, nudges Blake into the seat with a hasty “get in” before sliding in herself and shutting the door. She gives the driver her address, and doesn’t let go of Blake’s arm until they pull away from the curb.

Blake stares at her, bewildered. “What the _fuck_ is going on, Weiss?”

“Nothing.” Weiss’ foot taps.

Blake watches her, notices how tense she is, makes her own hypotheses and fights not to overthink too much. “Please?”

Weiss frowns, turning to her purse and rummaging around. She pulls her phone out, unlocks it and pulls up messages. 

“Willow” is all she says. 

Blake breathes out, sits back. Knowing what’s going on is much better than being left in the dark. She absolutely hates seeing Weiss as nervous as she just was, bordering on the edge of panic, and it makes sense that her mother would be the one to cause it. 

Only... it’s not Weiss’ mother. It’s not even fucking close, but Blake doesn’t know that. She can’t know that, not right now. 

_Fuck_ . Weiss searches for Nora’s contact, lips pursed and eyes sharp. _Fuck._ Her fingers move quickly, so quickly they blur. _Fuck_.

She watches the message send, makes sure it goes through before even thinking to turn her phone off and turn her attention back to Blake, give some bogus excuse for the way she nearly lost her head only five minutes ago.

_**Nora Valkyrie** _

_**Why didn't anyone tell me he's out?** _ **|**

_**|He's out?** _

_**|Fuck** _

  
  


\----------

  
  


Yang’s never been a fancy clothes kind of person. She leans more toward sweats and tank tops, flannels and jeans. Things she can move around in. Not that she can’t move around in dresswear, but it’s not the most comfortable thing, and that’s mainly what she goes for. Comfort.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to _work_ with dresswear, however. In fact, she’s pretty good at it. Good enough for Pyrrha to ask her if certain things are worth trying on, if that shirt will match that skirt, if her formal date with Jaune is a lost cause or if she’s overthinking.

Yang’d laughed at that, observing the blue walls in the boutique they rummaged through. _Don’t be silly_ , she’d said. _It’ll be great._

The thing about Yang’s voice is, it’s almost impossible not to believe everything she says. It’s so calming, reassuring. It feels like sunlight on grass, like sleep after exhaustion, like everything going right. It’s a melody, and it goes in one ear and out the other, taking doubts and pain and distress along with it.

“Are we sure I’ll even find anything?” Pyrrha’s voice is quiet, uncertain. She fidgets with her hands as Yang looks through blouses.

“Come on. It’s _Saphir_.” Yang turns and beams at the redhead as she says it. “It’ll have what we need.”

“We’ve never even come here before,” Pyrrha points out, eyeing a shirt doubtfully as Yang picks it up. 

“Wrong. I came here once with Ruby.”

“That’s not true.” Pyrrha knows the sisters well enough to know they’d never step foot in a store like this on their own; Ruby’s a Goodwill kind of girl anyway.

Yang holds up a finger as if to disagree, but says, “You’re right. That was a lie.” Pyrrha smiles, shakes her head as the defense continues. “ _But_ , we’ve passed by the place a couple times and it always looked promising.”

“Your claim means nothing if you’ve got nothing to base it on.”

“Shh, try this shirt on.” A burgundy blouse falls onto Pyrrha’s chest, and she catches it just before it slips further toward the floor. 

“You’re lucky I trust you with this.”

Yang grins. “You trust me with everything.”

“I wouldn’t trust you with my children.” She definitely would.

“Pfft. You can keep telling yourself that until you and Jaune wanna get it on and need a babysitter. Then who’ll you be calling?”

“Ruby,” Pyrrha giggles.

“Y’know what, that’s fair. She likes kids more than I do, anyway. They relate.” 

Yang takes a few hangers from her friend’s arm, puts them back on the rack. Her smile is so light and so simple, anyone can drown in it if they aren’t careful. Pyrrha likes that about her. The way her lighthearted expressions come with ease. In a city full of temperamental strangers and sour businessmen, a genuine smile is a breath of fresh air. Yang likes to joke that it’s the only reason Pyrrha keeps her around.

“How is Ruby, anyway? Didn’t she have those exams coming up or something?”

Yang peers at the clothing as she walks along the aisle. “Ruby? Yeah, for Com. I went and grabbed that book the night she was studying, remember?”

“The night you met that girl?”

Yang slows to a stop, blinking and exhaling. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Have you talked to her since then?”

“No.” The word drips with disappointment, something Pyrrha undoubtedly picked up, but doesn’t comment on. “I haven’t had the time, store owner said she’s only there at night and dickhead’s had me working until three.” 

“In the _morning_ ?” Yang nods, starts walking to the next row of clothing. “Why’d he give _you_ the night shift? You work so often as it is.” Pyrrha’s pout is nearly audible.

The blonde shrugs, her jacket slips off of one shoulder. “Trusts me the most, I guess? I _did_ grab that one guy when he tried to break in a couple weeks ago.”

“That _was_ impressive.”

Yang smirks, rolls her shoulders in a purposefully exaggerated display of confidence. “I know. Hot, too.”

Pyrrha throws her head back and laughs. “You’re impossible.”

The sentence rings a bell in Yang’s mind, echoes between every ridge and bend in her brain, burrows into the floor of every passing thought.

 _You’re impossible_ , Belladonna had said, and her grin had peeked through her lips like it was desperate to show. 

Yang wishes she’d teased her more, wishes she’d stayed longer. She wishes she’d asked for a cup of tea and taken a seat on the counter beside the green mug nestled between two palms. She wishes she’d made _any_ excuse to stay just a moment longer, memorize just one more detail, process just one more thought. But she didn’t. Because she planned to come back. The next night, and the night after, and the—

“Is it bothering you?”

Yang looks up from the skirt she’s holding, the glint of gold fabric catching the corner of her eye as she responds. “Huh?”

“The fact that you haven’t talked to her again.”

Yang considers lying, considers saying she hadn’t thought twice about the woman in the bookstore, considers acting like she wasn’t attached from the moment their eyes met. But she doesn’t, because that’s not who she is. She’s not a detached person, she doesn’t ignore those things. Not normally. And she wasn’t going to start now, just because of a few conflicting emotions.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “It does.”

“Knew it. I could tell you were thinking about someone when I came over today, I should’ve known it was her.”

A eyebrow raises, showcases amusement. “Oh?”

“Absolutely. When you told me about her, I _swear_ you acted like she was the only girl you’d ever seen. Could’ve sworn you’d forgotten every other woman’s name.”

 _I did_ , Yang nearly says. _I do._

“Women have _names_?” she asks instead, widening her eyes. “What the fuck.”

Pyrrha just shakes her head, smile bright. “Indeed.”

It takes three rounds in the changing room for the duo to decide on something they like; the burgundy blouse Yang had picked out and the gold skirt that’d caught her eye earlier, along with a pair of heels to match the top’s color. Pyrrha is unsure at first, turning every direction she can see in the mirror, but ultimately relaxes once Yang points out the positives and the way the outfit clings in all the right places, loosens in all the others.

When they head downstairs to pay, a jewelry display catches Pyrrha’s attention, and the only thing Yang can do is follow her and look through the tuxedo jackets on the rack beside the show of gems. 

She hears to Pyrrha go on about how similar a pair of earrings look to her mother’s as she runs her fingers along fabric, imagines wearing it and smiles to herself when she determines it’d look wonderful on her. She doesn’t have a huge ego, but she knows what she looks good in, and that takes so much skill, she’s allowed to acknowledge it every now and again. 

And then she hears a laugh. 

It’s beautiful. Warm, a bit reserved. Something she’d kill to listen to again, on repeat, for the rest of her life. Something that makes her glad she can hear, glad she exists in this moment, because if she didn’t, she would never have been able to experience it. Something that feels like waves crashing. Not onto sand, but onto grass.

 _Belladonna_. 

Yang picks her head up, tries to follow the sound with so much urgency, she’s surprised her skull doesn’t completely unscrew and fall to the floor. Pyrrha doesn’t notice, too caught up in judging a bracelet and the mineral resting inside of it. Jade, it sounds like. Yang’s not sure.

It takes mere _seconds_ to find the familiar black hair. It’s a bit more wavy today, like it was taken out of a knot only a couple hours before. The woman’s skin glows much brighter in this lighting, and it nearly takes Yang’s breath away. She cranes her neck, stretching to at least catch a _glimpse_ of the woman’s face, make sure it’s seriously her and not just a trick set by a heart cruel and playful.

And there it is. That grin. The grin that gave Yang butterflies, that made her stop thinking, that burrowed itself deep into her skin, through her muscle and bones and into her marrow. The grin that looks nervous, protective, but real.

Yang inhales, bounces on her heels, goes to step forward. She’s going to approach, she’s going to strike up a conversation and she’s going to tell that beauty she wasn’t just being ignored for a week like she never even mattered.

At least… that’s the plan. Until Yang sees Belladonna isn’t alone.

She stands with a shorter woman, whose white, long hair is pulled back into an almost painful looking ponytail. She looks cold, like snow. It’s a stupid observation, but it's true. Yang wonders if it fits a personality.

She watches the women converse for a quick moment before realizing how utterly strange the act is, then looks back down at the clothes in front of her. Weighs the pros and cons of walking over despite the company. She wants to do it, she really does. So much her legs nearly ache as if standing there and still is a decision unnatural enough to cause pain. But she also doesn’t want to interrupt anything, knows it’s not her place to do so after six entire days of being gone. 

Her heart hammers in her chest, loud and unsteady, and it really freaks her out. She’s not entirely used to her body reacting the way it is. She’s used to steady breaths, calm beating. Not deflated lungs and a perturbing heart rate. 

She can do this. She can. She has to. Her soul aches with longing every time she thinks of the night they met, the way Belladonna’s eyes had looked hopeful and curious. Like she _wanted_ to know Yang, like she wanted Yang to know her. And Yang doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forgive herself if she lets the woman’s expectation dwindle down to nothing. 

For _nights_ , Yang’s thought about the words they’d shared. The conversation held over uncertain voices and the soft, questioning laughs. They nearly drove her mad, so much so that she ended up sleeping on her futon in place of her bed because the memories made her mattress feel too damn bare. 

Maybe it’s stupid to react the way she is to someone she’s only spoken to once, but is that going to stop her? Not for a second. 

...Okay, maybe for a second. More than a second. Because Yang can’t do much when she picks her head back up and sees naked air in the space her interest had just been standing. 

A pyramid crashes in her mind. One brick falls, and the others come with it. Onlookers yell, tourists run away, but Yang stands there. She watches the structure fall. And she stares at the statue of a black cat that lands right at her feet.

She doesn’t know if the pair left too quickly, or if she thought for too long, but regardless, she pouts to herself for the rest of the shopping trip. 

Pyrrha notices, asks Yang what happened and makes sure she knows she’s available to listen. Yang thanks her, expresses her gratitude and even offers to pay for their haul. Pyrrha, of course, doesn’t let her, but pats her back as they weave through eager customers and toward the front door of the shop.

The only thing that wipes the pout off of Yang’s face is the moment she runs into someone, a little too close to play it off. 

Her expression changes to one of penitence. “Sorry!" she offers, "We're in a rush.”

“No problem,” the man mutters. He’s quick to slip away, raising a hand to hold his sunglasses in place over his eyes.

Yang senses something a little odd in his voice, watches him as he walks past her and toward the checkout counter. He didn’t sound annoyed. He didn’t sound understanding. He didn’t sound nervous. He didn’t sound _anything_. He just sounded… there.

Yang shrugs it off, reasons his reaction isn’t entirely uncommon when you live in a city crowded with people who’ve just stopped giving a fuck.

 _It’s weird_ , she tells Pyrrha on the ride home. _I’ve never seen a man with such red hair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter was a mess before editing so thank you oliver
> 
> anyway dont h ate me
> 
> fluff later, plot building now


	4. Chapter 4

It’s weird, the way the black cat starts showing up in odd places. Yang had seen it when she left for work that one morning, and since then, it managed to run into her at the most random of times. When she was returning home from a shift, picking up take-out down the street, helping Ruby get back into her apartment when she accidentally locked herself out. It was always there, just sitting, but it always ran off before Yang could get close.

Yang wants to follow it a few times, wants to see where it bolts off to, see why it leaves so quickly. But she doesn’t. She just leaves open cans of tuna on the front steps of her building, wills it to eat, maybe begin to trust her enough to let her step a little closer next time.

The cat doesn’t eat, lets the tuna go old instead, but that’s okay. These things take time, and Yang has an incredible amount of patience. She just picks up the cans, holds her breath against the smell, throws them away, and replaces them with brand new ones. 

Her sister hasn’t seen the cat at all, oddly enough. To be fair, Ruby doesn’t pay much attention to most things to begin with, but it’s strange for her not to notice an animal the moment it breathes in her vicinity. She’s always loved them, always been eager to give them every bit of affection she can muster and make sure they know how genuinely precious they are.

Yang can tell Ruby wishes she’d seen the cat by the way she listens to Yang talk about it, leaning so far forward in her chair, neither girl would be surprised if she fell straight forward.

They’re both lounging in Ruby’s apartment, spending a little time together before they need to part ways and run nightly errands. 

Yang lays on Ruby’s bed, hands joined behind her head to act as a cushion against the bed frame. She smiles at her sister while she talks, laughs at the way her eyes widen curiously at the mention of little paws and a flicking tail.

“It almost seems annoyed with me,” Yang remarks. “Like, it doesn’t know why I keep finding it, but it wishes I’d stop.”

“No way!” Ruby offers a reassuring smile from across the room, spins around in her desk chair. “Animals love you. Zwei can’t get enough of you when we’re back home.”

Yang’s lips turn up at the mention of their beloved corgi. “Yeah. Zwei isn’t a cat, though.”

“Still! _And_ there was that one cat when we went to the lake that one time.”

“That was like, six years ago, Rubes.”

“It still counts!”

Yang laughs, and it echoes through the room. “I guess it does. Still, though. I wonder how long it’ll take to warm up.”

Ruby stops spinning, lets her arms flop limply at her sides, her fingertips brushing over her carpet. “I don’t think it will take too long. It’s only been a few days, right?"

“Yeah, about a week.”

“Exactly! Give it a little time, I’m sure the baby’ll be nuzzling your leg whenever it sees you in no time.” Her grin is so honest and genuine, Yang doesn’t think to doubt her words for a second.

That’s one of Ruby’s things. The way positivity radiates from her like she’s the core of everything good. She’s almost never frowning, and her optimism sticks to nearly everything she makes contact with. It’s rare to find someone as unapologetically cheery as Ruby, someone who could probably make flowers bloom just by touching their petals.

Yang sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed and rests her feet flat on the floor. “What’s been going on with you? How’s school going?”

“It’s okay!” Ruby picks her arms back up, begins spinning again, slowly. “Combat exams haven’t been graded yet, but I’m pretty confident.”

Yang smiles. “You should be. You studied hard. Besides, this stuff comes to you naturally, right?”

“Mhm! I still have a bit to learn, I think, but it’s not that hard to take in. Penny’s dad offered to help us with some assignments this weekend, too. He’s cool, one of those inventor guys that work in those professional labs. But here, in the city.”

“Inventor guys, huh?”

Ruby watches Yang stand as she responds, excitement bubbling through every syllable. “Yeah! He helped design some walking chair a few months ago. It’s still in the blueprint stage, but he’s working on it.”

“He probably knows what he’s doing, then.”

“Definitely. He could probably help you with those broken parts at your place, too, y’know? I can ask him if you want.”

Yang, walking toward the small kitchen in the corner of the apartment, turns her head and gives Ruby a grateful smile. “Thanks, but I don’t plan on getting to work on them any time soon.”

“They’ve been sitting in the corner for _months_ , Yang.” Ruby’s lighthearted exasperation blankets the room. “You gotta do something with them.”

“I will! I just don’t really have the time to work on the project yet. I work at the shop a lot.”

Ruby huffs. She knows how much time her sister spends elbow deep in oily engines, and she knows why, even though she probably isn’t supposed to. It’s not that difficult to put together, though. Not with the way Yang trips over her mess of a floor on the way to hand Ruby envelopes of money to help with bills. Not with the way she neglects herself to make sure everything else is set and steady, hiding it so well it takes a careful eye to notice. 

Yang’s main concern is never herself, and it really tends to get Ruby down sometimes. But she knows she means well, so she takes the money and does her best to make up for the fund loss by cooking her sister’s favorite meals on the nights she visits. She’s grateful for the gesture, anyway. Money can’t buy happiness, but it can certainly keep heating on during the colder months.

"You're gonna take some time off soon, right?"

Yang shrugs, back turned as she plays with something on the counter. "Probably not."

" _Yang_." Ruby drags the word out, lets her shoulders drop as she whines. "You–"

“I like my job, Rubes. I don’t mind doing it so often.” She’s not lying. Yang _does_ like her job. A lot, actually. She likes getting her hands dirty, likes working on messed up motorcycle parts. She likes fixing broken things. “It’s okay.”

“I know.” Ruby pouts a little. “I just feel like you tire yourself out.”

Yang grins, turns to face her sister with a piece of buttered bread in her hand. “Really? _Me?_ Pfft. I don’t get tired.”

“That’s a lie, only an exhausted person sleeps the way you do.”

“What, am I an ugly sleeper?”

“No,” Ruby giggles. “You’re just _impossible_ to wake up.”

“Bull.”

“Not bull! Remember that time you fell off your bed?”

Yang snorts, feigns confusion. “No? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie! You literally left a dent in the wall! Dad thought you had a concussion!”

“Okay… maybe I remember. But that was _once_.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened again.”

“I can’t believe you’d do me like this.” Yang shakes her head, takes a bite of her bread and rests it back on the counter. “I’m hurt.”

“I’m just being honest!” 

“I’m going to go home and cry now, all because of you.” Her voice doesn’t match the words, amusement clouding each letter. “Look what you’ve done.”

Ruby stands, brushes her dress off as she laughs. “You’re the one that _sleeps_ that way. You’re like a sloth.”

“A _sloth_? You’re trying to make me cry, aren’t you?” 

“No. Shhhh. Hug me goodbye.”

Yang opens her arms, lets them fold around a smiling Ruby. The girls stay there for a couple seconds, hugging each other tightly, and Yang rubs her sister’s back before pulling away, offering one of her loving grins.

They might live next door to one another, but they really don’t spend as much time together as you’d think, so they both appreciate nights like these, when they can just sit down and talk and laugh like siblings are supposed to. They don’t talk about bills, about missed assignments or work shifts or meetings. They just joke around like they did when they were kids. Before they had to worry about all the adult things they worry about now. And, believe it or not, it really fucking helps. 

“I love you, Yang.” 

“I love you too, Rubes. Text if you need anything?”

Ruby nods as Yang steps away. Watches as she pulls her jacket over her shoulders, as she walks toward the door of the apartment, as she pulls an envelope out of her back pocket and drops it onto the table in the entryway. 

“For rent,” Yang explains as she pulls the door open.

And then she’s in the hallway. Running her fingers along the wall as she walks. She does it all the way to the front entrance, lets her arm drop by her side when the concrete runs out. She feels a little odd when she has nothing left to touch, nothing left to distract her senses with. 

Maybe it’s her nerves? She can’t tell, but she wouldn’t be surprised.

She sees the cat on her way to the curb. She doesn’t stop walking this time, doesn’t try to approach it slowly. She expects it to run off again, to brand her a threat, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sits there. It watches her as she grows closer, its pupils wide slits, and stays in place. 

Like she’s not a bother this time. 

Like her presence isn’t something to be entirely weary of. 

She smiles to herself as she gets into her cab.

  
  


\----------

  
  


One good thing to come out of Yang’s absence? Blake can read again. 

It’s a strange victory, a nearly backhanded one, but she’s alright with it. It’s relieving to be able to focus on her stories again, to be able to dive into a world different from the one she’s in and get the break she’s looking for. She can take in words again, put places together in her mind, fall in love with characters on the pages in front of her, and fuck, is she glad about it.

It was hard to find a new book after _The Heirs of Atlas_ . Finding a new novel after something _that_ good is always tough. It tends to take a few days of searching, of reading random pages just to get a feel for writing styles and characters. Books leave lasting imprints, ones that are hard to move on from.

Kind of like people. A person. A person Blake told herself she’d stop thinking about. A person Blake wants to think about. A person she shouldn’t think about. A person that doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter, rather, but does. Sometimes. Always.

Anyway, Blake’s new book. _The Gold in Vale._ David had recommended it to her the night before, eagerly pointing to its cover. He'd seemed so excited about it, she had no choice but to dive in and see what the craze was about.

She’s liking it so far. She likes the main character a lot. He’s brave and fearless, willing to throw himself into harm's way to protect the people he cares about. She takes note of the way everyone trusts him enough not to question his choices, wonders if that’ll change later in the story and knows it always tends to. 

The way Blake sees it, everyone makes mistakes worth questioning. Everyone makes decisions they’re not sure of. Everyone deserves a chance to be uncertain sometimes, because that’s what the world demands. 

Humans are unsure creatures. Hell, they need to teach themselves how to walk, to talk, to eat, to love. There’s bound to be a little bit of confusion along the way, and it’d be _terrifying_ if there wasn’t. If some baby just grew up perfectly, without error. The thought of it makes her shiver.

People rely on accidents, on ambivalence, to grow. To be… _people_. It’s only realistic, it’s only human. Blake’s learned to understand that, to understand how important mistakes are. Hell, she’s made her fair share of huge ones. 

They’re a part of the human condition, and they should be treated as such. 

That's one of the reasons Blake doesn’t blame Yang for not coming back.

Yang didn’t intend to see Blake that night. She intended to see her sister’s textbook. She didn’t purposely run into Blake, didn’t come to the bookstore knowing she’d be there. It was a coincidence, it wasn’t purposeful. It was a mistake. 

Their meeting was a mistake. 

That’s just how things go sometimes. Blake can’t blame Yang for something she hadn’t predicted. She can’t blame Yang for not wanting it to continue. She can’t blame Yang for wanting to forget it ever happened. She can’t blame _Yang_.

David hadn’t asked Blake about her, about what happened or if they ever got in contact again after that night. His eyes had been curious, more so than they normally are, and he’d insinuated things. When talking about his wife, when reviewing certain novels, when talking about tea flavors. But he’d never asked. And Blake isn’t entirely sure if she’s thankful or upset about it.

That’s how it always is when it comes to Yang. Blake never knows if she’s hurt or understanding, angry or grateful, terrified or calm. 

It seems like the answer would be clear, with the way her heart speeds up and her breath stops, but it’s not. It’s anything but. 

She _knows_ that people are complex creatures, that emotions are difficult to understand. But in the moments when she’s thinking about Yang and can’t fucking stop, she wishes they weren’t. She wishes she could flip a switch, push a button, pull a lever and make every thought and consideration and concept disappear as quickly as it came.

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been losing sleep over it. Over Yang, over the thoughts her memory brings, over the way Blake can’t forget her voice and her smile and her lips and her teeth and her hair and her eyes and her _everything_. 

Things that probably seem so minuscule and small to everyone else make Blake’s bed feel like a cold, empty wasteland of longing and loneliness and pure, absolute confusion. 

It’s pathetic, it is, but Blake’s bordering on not caring anymore. Letting the fixation take her over until she’s literally just a feral, gay mess pining for a woman she spoke to for half an hour. That’s where she’s at. And if she didn’t have even the slightest bit of common sense, she’d have crossed the line already.

And still, even as Blake yearns for the ability to hear Yang say one more thing, one more word, she knows she can’t, and that it’s for the better. 

Blake’s heart can ache for the woman as much as it wants, but it doesn’t get rid of the truth. It doesn’t get rid of Blake’s past. It doesn’t get rid of anything.

It’s a good thing Yang’s stayed away.

Blake lifts her head and looks away from her book. She blinks, takes a few deep breaths, stretches her legs straight out in front of her. 

She’d stopped reading some minutes ago, too deep in thought to process the sentences her eyes were dancing over. It’s not out of the ordinary, but something she’s grown used to. She normally needs to take a few minutes to reboot after getting lost in her own head.

The bookstore is quiet, as it always is this late at night. Things tend to calm down around ten, when the attention of the city’s people is taken away from literature and nudged toward loud music and— if that scene isn’t for you— sleep.

David stops counting shelves, starts boiling water, adding up the day’s sales. The air gets thinner, feels less like cotton and more like leather. It’s the sign of an ending night, of the moon waking up, of the sky showing its most comfortable form. It calms Blake’s soul. Helps her breathe. Relaxes her heart. 

Normally.

But it is _so_ fucking hard for Blake to be calm when she hears that telltale squeak of the bookstore’s door opening. Because she looks up and sees everything. Sees lilac, sees gold, sees life.

“Hey.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Weiss is always a calm individual on the outside. Temperamental, but steady. It almost makes her hard to be around. Her frequent scowls are nearly as calculated as her rare smiles, and her demands are spoken in the same voice as her jokes. The only difference is the tone. And she can switch her tone so quickly, it feels like a threat. Like smashing glass. Like words written in blood. 

But right now, she doesn’t have time to calculate. She doesn’t have time to transition smoothly, or furrow her eyebrows or even to turn away completely. She doesn’t have time to act, to hide her true emotions, to hide her chewed nails by holding her hands behind her back. She doesn’t have _time_. 

“Valkyrie.” Her heels click loudly as she steps into Nora’s office, shuts the door behind her with a gesture smoother than rolling waves, as dangerous as the ocean itself. “How long.” 

Nora looks up from her computer, eyes wide and wild; she’s just as worried. “I don’t know.”

“How do you not _know_?” 

“The same way you don’t. _No one_ knows. He just showed up.”

Weiss stares at the redhead for a few moments before exhaling shakily, dropping her shoulders. “Fuck.”

Nora nods, stands up without pushing her chair back. “Fuck.”

“How did no one find out he was released? Why is he even out? It hasn’t been three years. He should still be—”

“They let him out on good behavior.”

_Good fucking behavior._ Weiss almost laughs, just hiccups instead. “Adam Taurus? Of course, that manipulative little—”

Weiss should’ve known he’d be let out early. They all should’ve. It’s Adam fucking Taurus, for fuck’s sake. Everyone in this building who _really_ knows Blake has seen what he did to her. What he’s capable of. They know he’s dangerous. They know he’s a fucking threat. 

“He might’ve bribed them, too. You know he has a lot.”

“Of course he does. He stripped Blake of everything. He has more than just money.” Weiss’ voice is high, trembles like a string pulled taut. “He’s more than just money.”

Things are deafeningly silent for a few moments. The air feels stiff, the room too dark, and the universe like it's going _wrong._

“Does she know?”

Weiss’ head snaps up, meets Nora’s eyes again. “No.”

Nora’s face, usually wild and comically chaotic, is only serious. Her lips are pursed, eyes focused and offering the slightest bit of noticeable reassurance. “Okay.”

“She doesn’t need to find out.”

“...Weiss—”

“ _No_. She doesn’t need to know. Not right now.”

Nora rarely snaps, rarely lets her voice go rough, but today, at this very moment, she does. “This isn’t just her _ex_ , Weiss! This is her _abuser_ ! She deserves to _know!_ ”

“This would _break her_ ,” Weiss says, voice level but raising. “You know that. She thinks she’s safe.” Nora doesn’t respond, just looks away. “ _We_ can keep her safe. We’ll tell the others. Coco, Sun, Velvet. We’ll tell the others, we’ll keep tabs, we’ll call the right people and we’ll keep an eye out.”

“Okay.”

Weiss keeps going as if Nora hadn’t even spoken. “I’ll see if we can open any of the abandoned cases back up. I’ll see if there’s anything we missed, anything that’ll get him back off the streets. I’ll-”

Warm hands anchor themselves onto Weiss’ shoulders, press down. Aqua eyes meet blue ones and stare, soft and reassuring. “Relax.”

_I can’t_ , she almost says. _He was there. He had to have watched us go in, he had to have known we were there. That_ she _was there. He has to be watching. He had to be following. I’m scared for her._

But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods, holds Nora’s gaze and straightens her spine. “Right,” she says, fights to keep her voice present. “Relaxing.”

“I’ll email the others about—”

“No,” Weiss interrupts, shakes her head once. “Don’t email. Call.”

“I’ll _call_ the others. I’ll tell them what happened, how he’s out and what we can do to keep Blake safe.” Nora peers at the woman in front of her, softens her tone. “They care about her, too. They saw what he did. They watched it happen. They’ll help make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Weiss inhales, looks past Nora’s head when she breathes out. “Okay.” Her fists relax; she hadn’t even realized they were clenched. “Okay.”

“You just… talk to the attorney, okay? Get him ready.”

_Get him ready._ The words fight to break through Weiss’ walls. 

She doesn’t let them. “I will. I’ll call Winter, as well.” Her older sister had been so much help with the first case, it’d be insane to keep an eye out for a second one without her.

Nora nods, drops her hands. “Okay.” She notices Weiss’ face harden, sees her defenses go back up. “We’ve got this.”

“Of course we do,” Weiss says, like it’s the most obvious statement in the world and she’d never doubted it for a second. Weiss Schnee is back, superior and level.

“Blake will be okay.”

Nora doesn’t get a response, but she can tell her statement wasn’t ignored. She watches Weiss’ chest fall again, slowly. The way snow drops to the ground. She knows the reassurance mattered.

Weiss steps back toward the door, grabs the knob. She breathes once more before turning it and pulling, stepping through the doorway. “Coco wants you to review the cover photography for issue sixty-seven.”

And then she’s gone, already down the hall, the sound of her heels disappearing. 

With the way her head is yelling? She wouldn’t notice their volume, anyway.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake’s heart is long gone. Flown up through her throat, out of her mouth, toward the sky like that’s where it’s destined to be. She can’t feel it beating anymore, can’t feel her lungs work, can’t see anything but the woman in front of her. 

She’s pretty sure her mouth drops open, but she wouldn’t know. Her lips are numb. Her face is numb, but she can feel it getting red, and she can feel it getting hot, and she knows her eyes are wider than appropriate, and it’s a mess. It’s a huge fucking mess.

“Long time, no see,” Yang offers, hand scratching the back of her neck as she showcases a lopsided smile so perfect, it should be illegal. 

Blake doesn’t answer. She almost _can’t_ answer. It’s not that her throat is tight, or that she can’t speak without breath. She’s just forgotten how words work. How to string them together and make sentences, how to form her lips around syllables. She doesn’t know what words are an appropriate response, or how many words she needs to answer with, or how she should say them. She’s not even sure if words are the right way to reply, when she can literally leap to her feet right then and there and throw her arms around the blonde’s neck.

Yang must notice her silence, must notice how long it lasts, because a golden eyebrow raises and takes concern with it. “Are you… okay?” Blake continues to stare, and Yang looks back to the front, toward the counter. “Is she okay? I don’t know—”

Finally, _somehow_ , words work, Blake’s throat works, and she speaks. “Hi.” It’s such a pathetic statement, she almost wants to laugh.

Yang looks back to her, smile softening so much, it nearly melts everything in the room. “Hey there.”

Blake looks down at her hands, desperate for her book, for her tether to the earth, and finds her hands empty; she’d dropped the book at some point during her stupor. 

She reaches down to pick it up as she speaks, body temperature cooling the moment her fingertips make contact with the paper. “Busy week or something?” She’s almost taken aback by how steady her voice sounds.

Yang’s laugh almost ruins it, almost sends it rolling. “Yeah, of course. Boss had me working the night shifts, you know how that is.”

“I don’t, actually.” Blake stands, wills her legs to hold as she meets Yang’s eyes again.

“No?” Blake shakes her head, smile poking at the corners of her lips. “Weird. You’re always here at night, aren’t you?”

“I don’t work here. Just come to read and help David.” 

“Ahh,” Yang replies, leaning back against the bookshelf behind her. “She’s a volunteer, hm?”

Blake shrugs, keeps her eyes trained in place. “Not really. I come for the tea. Right, Dave?” She raises her voice at the question.

David’s voice sounds from the front of the store, and he sounds smug as all hell. “What’s up?”

“I only use you for your tea, don’t I?”

He laughs that belly laugh of his, speaks before it’s finished. “You do, it’s devastating. And if I don’t have blackcurrant? I’m done for.”

Yang grins, eyes shining. “Blackcurrant, hm?”  
  
“Mhm, best kind.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure of tasting it.”

“Oh, no.” Blake crosses her arms, shakes her head. “I can’t be seen with you. This is dangerous. I refuse to be seen with you.”

Yang laughs. It sounds like belonging. “What? It was my personality last time, and now it’s my tea experience?”

“No,” Blake deadpans, “it’s still your personality. I was just trying to make a polite excuse.”

“That’s hardly polite.”

“You don’t think so? I thought it was a good try.”

“It _was_ a good try,” Yang says, smirk nearly accusatory. “Great, even. I’m just skilled enough to see past it.”

Blake’s heart skips a beat. She watches the woman in front of her, watches the way her chest rises and falls with her breath, the way her rosy lips curl perfectly, the way her posture is so nonchalant, it almost makes Blake want to scream with envy. 

“You don’t even know me.” _I wish you did._

Yang shrugs. “Maybe I want to.”

Gravel falls from the walls in Blake’s mind, far down to the floor of passing thoughts. A rumble sounds along with it, but she can’t hear it; she’s too focused on Yang’s voice, on how much it sounds like a song, on how much it sounds like home. On how much it sounds like _being_. 

She watches Yang with a curious gaze, sees how her smile is half there, like it’d paused on the way out, and there’s something so perfectly heartwarming about it. About the idea that even Yang’s _smile_ is eager to know more, to know a complete stranger. 

_Yes,_ Blake wants to say. _Yes. Yes. Yes._

“Oh?” is all she can manage.

Yang’s grin grows, shows heart stopping demeanor and perfect canines. “Yeah. You’re intriguing. I want to know what you’re like.” Her eyes travel over Blake’s everything, take in every detail. “Aside from prissy, of course. But something tells me that’s just an act anyway.”

“If it isn’t?” Blake’s tongue fights against the words as she says them, aches to admit the falsity of the attitude, aches to tell Yang it’s not real, that she’s right.

Yang shrugs, pushes off of the bookshelf and stands straight. “Then it isn’t.”

“If it is?” _It is. It fucking is._

“Well, Belladonna,” she replies, lips turning upward again, “I guess we’ll have to find out.” Blake’s heart is back, hammering in her chest, breaking her rib cage wide open. “Deal?”

“Why not.” 

Blake ignores the sirens wailing in her head, the way her mind tells her ‘ _no_ ’. She ignores the danger signs, the train horns, the ashes falling over her eyes. And she focuses on her lungs, the way they begin to breathe for Yang the second she speaks, the way her heart begins to beat for Yang the moment she laughs, the way she, as a whole, yearns for Yang the very minute she might cease to be seen.

“You’ll go out with me, then?”

“Go out with you?” 

Yang nods her head, gesture nearly as hopeful as her words. “I’ll take you out for breakfast, assuming you don’t sleep too late.

_Sleep?_ Blake thinks of saying. _Who needs sleep?_

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake lays awake that night, stares at her ceiling. She basks in the way her head seems to buzz, the way warmth surrounds her heart like it’s been cold for way, way too long.

She holds her cellphone in her hands, holds it against her stomach. Considers unlocking it, pulling up her contacts, staring at the new number in the entries just to remind herself Yang’s return was real. 

Yang came back. 

_Yang came back_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty august, bellea nd oliver for being so eager to read these chapters when they come out lmao it makes me feel so nice, sobs

Yang’s fondness shows through the little things. The way her smile lingers a little too long after one of Blake’s jokes, the way she playfully bumps into her side while they walk next to the street, the way she makes sure the café they go to has her favorite tea. 

She almost doesn’t expect Blake to like it, almost expects her to lean away or look at her strangely after hearing the intensity of her laugh. But she doesn’t. Instead, she _revels_ in it.

She revels in the feeling of Yang’s fingertips against her elbow, guiding her through clusters of hurrying people. She revels in the way Yang’s lips turn upward, like she’s finally _seeing_ something that’s been hidden in plain sight the whole time she’s been alive. She revels in the way Yang carries herself, nervous and calculated but in a lazy way that makes it seem like the women have been around each other their entire lives.

Yang sees the way Blake’s eyes sparkle, the way she holds her shoulders looser as each minute passes. Her knots are unraveling, her lungs are opening up, her ribs are separating from her spine and giving her more room to exist without nervous expectation and supposition. And Yang sees it all. 

She _definitely_ sees it when Blake trips over a crack in the cement and laughs at herself rather than apologizing profusely for her mistake, as if it were some massive inconvenience to take note of.

Yang watches her right herself, holds out an arm for her to grab onto with eyebrows raised in amusement. “You okay there?”

Blake covers her mouth with her hand as she continues to chuckle at herself, undoubtedly embarrassed. “I’m fine. It was the sidewalk’s fault.”

Yang laughs, starts to walk again. “I’m sure it was. It always is, isn’t it?”

Blake follows. “Don’t sound so skeptical. I swear, it’s always been out to get me.”

“You think so?”

“I _know_ so,” Blake says. “I always trip at least once when I’m out. It’s been that way since I was a kid.”

“Maybe you’re just clumsy.”

“And you said you know me.” 

Yang watches the way Blake’s hair ripples as she shakes her head with a smile, watches the way it falls over her shoulders like that’s exactly where it’s supposed to be. She’d be surprised if it wasn’t, it looks so perfect there. 

Everything looks perfect when Blake’s around. She could walk into a burned building, charred and ruined to rubble, and everything would undoubtedly seem flawless. The ash, the soot, the cinders. Everything would look like it exists solely to be there, broken and ravaged. Like that’s the only reason it ever began to be. She doesn’t fix the way things look, doesn’t mend them. She makes fragments look like they belong. Yang wonders if she makes them feel that way, too.

“I said I want to _get_ to know you,” Yang corrects. “That you’re intriguing.”

Blake turns her head, flashes a grin that crashes against Yang’s mind like waves. “I just tripped on a flat surface. How’s that for intriguing?”

“Oh, you know. Now I just want to see if I can get you walking right.”

“That’s your goal then?” Blake asks, pulling her sweater a bit tighter around her arms. “To teach me how to walk?”

_Belladonna_ , _I want to teach you how to fly._

“Something like that,” Yang says. 

The café is immediately better than the city’s streets the moment they step inside, leaving bitter autumn air behind and welcoming the warmth of a place newly familiar. It smells like cinnamon, like bread and comfort and significance. 

Yang can tell she chose the right place for their rendezvous. When she turns her head, she sees Blake looking around the room, absorbing every detail she can set her gaze on. She watches her attention jump from the beige walls and grey tiles, to the bulky cups resting on wooden tables, and back around a few more times. Yang would watch the wonderment forever if she could.

“This is nice,” Blake comments, voice so much calmer than her eyes. “I like it.”

“I figured you would.” Yang smiles softly, and the act alone relaxes her face completely. “It’s the closest thing to the bookstore I could find.”

“You did well.” Blake’s contentment drips off each word. 

Yang basks in the praise like hearing it is the only reason she has ears, and she swears, for a few moments, it is.

She ends up ordering for the both of them, doesn’t even have to ask for Blake’s order. She doesn’t hide the confidence in her voice, just punctuates her words with a cocky side-grin that makes Blake smile and look away. 

They choose to sit near the window. It gives Yang an excuse to look away at something passing by when she realizes she’s been watching Blake’s expression for too long. Not that she wants to look away at all; she’d rather watch the woman in front of her like she's a lifeline. 

“So,” Yang starts, watching Blake wrap both hands around her mug. “What’s with you and books?”

Blake looks up from her tea, meets Yang’s eyes as if the question surprised her to the core. “What do you mean?”

“You like them, right?”

“A lot, yes. I have for a while.”

“Exactly.” Yang sits back in her chair, crosses her legs under the table. “Why?”

Blake takes her bottom lip between her teeth, chews it softly as she thinks of what to say. Yang watches the movement, watches the way steam rises from the mug she holds and wishes it’d stop clouding the view. “It’s a coping mechanism, I guess,” Blake says at last. “That’s what it started as, at least.”

“And it’s not anymore?”

“No, it still is. It’s just not as much of a… dire one.”

Yang reaches for the bagel in front of her, carefully tears a piece off and pops it into her mouth. She chews thoughtfully for a few moments before speaking again. “What changed?”

Blake watches the blonde lick a bit of spread from the tip of her thumb, and says, plainly, “My situation.

Her thumb begins to stroke the ceramic it rests on. The movement seems to tether her to the ground, to her chair, to the present moment, and Yang knows she doesn’t have the right to push the topic further.

“I’ve never been one for reading,” she says, opting for nonchalance. 

Blake nearly seems to melt at the opportunity for new conversation, and Yang almost wants to apologize. Say sorry for possibly pressing too hard, for bringing up something rough, for making her uncomfortable. But she doesn’t. She knows it’d be better not to mention it, to just move on. 

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘reading is boring’ people,” Blake responds, narrows her eyes in mock expectation. “That’d be a loss.”

“Absolutely not. What do you take me for?”

Blake shrugs, says flatly, “One of those ‘reading is boring’ people.”

Yang’s jaw drops slightly, holds open as she shakes her head and blocks the smile begging to build its home on her lips. “Wow.”

“What?”

“You think so lowly of me.”

Blake raises her mug, brings it to her mouth just in time to hide a warm grin. “That’s right.”

Yang catches it. Catches the expression, the humor. Her heart jumps, soars, raps against her ribs in an attempt to set itself free. “How do I fix it?”

“It’ll change gradually. The more I learn about you, the more I’ll like you.” Blake shrugs, takes a long sip of her tea, relishes the way its temperature blends in with the heat in her cheeks. “It’s a process.”

Yang peers at the woman across from her. She observes her expression, closed off but curious. She takes in every detail; the way Blake’s cheeks paint themselves rosy under Yang’s gaze, the way the ghost of a smile haunts her lips, the way her shoulders rise and fall with breaths that say “I’m breathing, I’m here, I’m alive for _something_.” 

Blake looks like opportunity. Like comfort. She exists with the night sky's vigor, as much as she does with its torpor. 

And Yang lives for it.

The blonde drops her elbows on the table, leans forward on her arms, and looks straight into Blake’s eyes. “My name is Yang Xiao Long. My birthday is August ninth, making me a Leo. I was born in California and lived there up until two years ago, when I moved to Harlem with my sister, Ruby Rose. I graduated high school, but not college, and I fix motorcycles for a living. My favorite food is sushi, I like my steak medium rare, and I’d kill a man for Lucky Charms.” Blake watches her as she speaks, curiosity blanketing her expression. “I don’t read often, prefer to listen to music, but books aren’t bad. I don’t like people touching my hair, so I trim it myself every few months. My apartment is a mess because I never have time to clean, and I took self defense classes for three entire months when I was eighteen.” She says it like it’s an impressive feat, something to boast about. “My alcohol of choice is tequila. I don’t watch television, but I like _The Notebook_ and I wear it proudly. I can’t go to sleep without background noise. I’m great at cooking, but don’t do it often. I don’t like birds. Fuck birds. I broke my arm the year before I came to New York when I was walking on rocks next to the sea. I slipped. I’m a lesbian, I’m a wonderful kisser, I’m not the biggest fan of kids, and I have a huge thing for cats.” She fights not to gasp for air when she finishes.

Blake only stares across the table for a few minutes. Her eyes narrow as her grin grows, her interest more than clear. “Huh.”

Yang wiggles her eyebrows. “Eh? Ehhh?”

Blake exhales, breathes her anxieties out into the space around her and wills the atmosphere to lock them away. “You’re dumb.” The words are anything but mean, sound more like applause. 

Yang luxuriates in the ovation.

  
  


\----------

  
  


**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_to Me_

———————

Blake,

Coco wants your edits in her inbox by tomorrow afternoon. Make sure to check the color samples and names. We can’t afford to make another misspell like last month’s. It will knock us off the board.

Thanks,

Weiss Schnee

———————

Blake reads over the email, chews on the end of her pen. 

She’s normally incredibly productive at work, pumping out fixes and edits quicker than a machine pumps oil, but her head’s been so busy today, she’s barely managed to make a dent in her work.

She knows why, of course. Knows why her thoughts keep lingering, why she checks out the exact moment her fingers begin to type. Why she’d rather be _anywhere_ but at that desk, in her office, for a completely different reason than usual. Why she’d rather be sitting beside the sun herself instead of in the green chair that’d grown to know her name.

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

Weiss, 

Thank you for the reminder. I’ll be sure to double check everything before sending it in. I’ll make sure we reach top mentions this time.

B. Belladonna

———————

Blake stares at her computer after sending the response, holds her twitching fingers over her keyboard. 

She wants to.

She has time to do it later, she always does, but… fuck, her work is going to be terrible if she doesn’t tell _someone_. 

Her hands move so quickly, they blur.

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

I saw Yang today.

B. Belladonna

———————

She knows it’s risky, knows Coco doesn’t like when they use their work emails for leisurely conversations, but she also knows Coco doesn’t like them using their phones. What else is Blake supposed to do? 

She knows Coco will probably understand, anyway.

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

Blake, 

Triple check everything you can.

Congrats. Talk about it later. Work now.

Thanks, 

Weiss Schnee

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

I can’t talk about it later. I need to talk about it now. It’s an emergency. ):

B. Belladonna

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

Blake, 

You’re insufferable. I have work to do.

Thanks, 

Weiss Schnee

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

So do I. Your work depends on mine, and I can’t work if I can’t think.

B. Belladonna

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

Gods, Blake, you’re going to drive me mad. Talk.

———————

Blake grins at the email's loss of formality, at the way she just _knows_ Weiss had thrown her hands in the air and scowled at her computer screen the moment she realized Blake made a valid point.

She sits back, crosses her legs, thinks about what to say.

It’s crazy; she’d thought the words would come easy. That she’d know exactly what to talk about, exactly what to remember, exactly what to comment on the very second she was given the chance. But she doesn’t. She’s at a complete loss.

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

_———————_

I don’t know what to say. It was so nice.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

Are you kidding me? You’re putting my entire schedule on hold and you don’t even know how to tell me what was so important?

———————

Blake scowls as she reads, huffs to herself.

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

_———————_

Don’t be that way. It’s hard to put into words. It was crazy. I didn’t expect it to go as nicely as it did. I didn’t expect it to go badly, but I didn’t expect it to go so well.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

So you ended up going to that cafe? Was the food nice, at least? I might check it out.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

_———————_

I don’t know. I can’t remember what it tasted like. I was too focused on Yang.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

You’re a mess. You’ve spoken to her twice.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _b belladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

Three times. And I know, but she’s so cool. I’ve never met someone like her. She just carries herself like the world knows her name.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

You think she’s hot. 

———————

Blake feels heat rush through her veins, from her wrists, to the bends of her arms, to her neck. To her face.

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <b_ _belladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

I do not. I just think she’s nice.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

Right. And I like men.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

I’m showing that to your boyfriend.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

_———————_

I’m telling Yang you think she’s hot.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

_———————_

You haven’t even met her??

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

———————

Not yet. Can I go back to work now?

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss_

———————

Weiss, 

Go. I’ll send Coco the edits.

B. Belladonna

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Me_

_———————_

Blake,

Screw you. 

Kindly,

Weiss Schnee

———————

Blake grins, shakes her head at Weiss’ need to have the last word in _every_ situation. It’s one of her things, one of the rules she lives by. 

If she’s not the last person to talk, the conversation isn’t over. 

Blake considers sending one more email, one phrased so Weiss can’t respond, just to fuck with her, but decides against it.

She has work to attempt.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Yang’s hair is beautiful, she knows that, but it’s fucking impossible to deal with sometimes. She always pulls it into a bun when she goes to sleep, a desperate attempt to stop it from tangling and knotting, but it barely works. She often awakes to her hair ties snapped and caught in her locks.

It doesn’t stop her from tying it up anyway, though. She just stares at herself in the mirror as she does it, sticks her tongue out while she focuses and wills her hair to behave. 

Just the process alone is enough to get her exhausted, enough to get her eyes aching. It’s like her own personal kind of melatonin. 

Her bed isn’t the softest, but it feels so, so comfortable compared to the work she’s been doing all day. Her mattress molds around her shoulders, her back. Grabs her wrists and pulls her toward sleep the very moment she settles down.

But she can’t sleep, not yet. Not when her phone sits beside her pillow, expectant and waiting. 

Yang’s hand reaches out, pats around for the cell. She closes her hand around it, slides the lock with her thumb, pulls up messages. Stares at Blake’s contact, labeled only “ _Belladonna”_ with a black heart.

She doesn’t have a contact photo, not yet. They aren’t there yet, but they’ll get there. Yang’s sure of it. She’s never been more sure of anything in her entire life.

She smiles softly as she types her message, watches it send as if she’s worried it might not send at all.

**_I had fun this morning. We should do that again some time._ **

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake jumps a little bit when she hears her ringtone go off. She’s not used to getting texts so late; Weiss is normally asleep by midnight, and she tends not to text anyone else on the regular. 

She has to pry her eyes away from the book she’s reading, will herself to fold the corner of the page she’s on and tend to what’s demanding her attention.

She grabs her phone, holds it up above her face to read the notification that pops up. She smiles when she sees it.

_Yang’s been thinking about this morning, too._

Her heart swells to the size of her lungs, forces the breath from her chest. Her head soars, her mind buzzes, and all she can think about is the way Yang’s voice makes her feel like fate exists. Like it’s real, like it’s unrestrained, and like it’s unforgiving. 

Blake imagines Yang’s laugh and forgets how to breathe, pictures it flowing throughout her room and making itself at home in her walls. She thinks of the way forests feel when it’s windy, the way branches brush against branches and leaves against leaves. She wonders if a fox would burrow in the way Yang sounds the same way it would in the dirt. 

She falls asleep with her phone clutched against her chest, thinking of the way Yang’s tone dips and rises. 

Her book falls to the floor as she rests, wrinkles pages and misplaces words. 

She doesn’t care, not really.

She has a new story to pay attention to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my editor is making me apologize for making blake dog ear her book so
> 
> i am sorry for making blake dog ear her book
> 
> side au where the book comes back for revenge


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi my sincere apologies for the break between chapters kjdsks i got dental work done a couple days ago and couldnt write and its taken some time to get back in the swing of things WHOOPS

There’s a certain kind of satisfaction that courses through Yang’s veins whenever she finishes a motorcycle repair— when she turns the bike’s key, listens to the engine roar, listens to it work. 

She pushes past the roadblocks she comes across because the resulting gratification and confidence fills her with enough energy to pick her frustrations up by the collar and toss them to the side. Because fixing things gives Yang worth, a reason to be proud of herself. And because doing it right pays well.

Those are normally the reasons she stays resilient, keeps focused on her tasks. They’re usually what motivates her to get to her shifts every day. What helps her keep working at problems she doesn’t know how to solve just yet. What keeps her at it so clock-out time arrives quicker. But recently, she’s had different incentives.

Ones like raven hair falling over slender shoulders. Like golden eyes darting curiously around a crowded room. Like rosy lips curling upward in a quiet way that makes Yang want to inhale the air between them and exhale everything else.

After that first date, that first real conversation, that first real _moment_ , she began to invite herself to the bookstore whenever she pleased.

Now? Now she gets through her days for Blake. So she can meet her at that bookstore every night, just as the moon claims the sky. So she can be greeted with a familiar grin, a warm handhold that sends shivers running up her spine before their fingers can even interlock. So she can step through that creaking door, turn her head toward that specific corner of the room, and see a woman so enveloped in her book, she doesn’t even register the world around her.

In the past few weeks, the pair’s spent much more time together. Yang offers to take Blake to bookstores she hasn’t been to, convinces her to join in on walks in Central Park. Blake invites Yang to her apartment, begs her to tell her cooking secrets during the quieter parts of the movies they watch. 

Two weeks and four days later, Blake’s memorized their stroll route and learned how to make chicken alfredo with minimal error, and Yang’s performed the Bee Movie’s beginning monologue at least seven times in _dramatic_ detail. And they wouldn’t change it for the world.

Yang relishes the way Blake smiles at her, adores the way her voice sounds like it’s for Yang, and Yang only. She _bathes_ in the warmth of Blake’s gaze, the fleeting thoughts that take shelter behind her eyes. She exists for the way Blake laughs as if she hadn’t expected a reason to, but found one anyway. The little things that make up Blake. 

They’re nearly all Yang thinks about. When she shuts her eyes to sleep, when she washes her hair, when she starts working on a new motorcycle. There’s always a piece of Blake somewhere inside of her mind, waiting for the perfect opportunity to hop out at the mention of a certain phrase, or character, or song.

And, gods, when Yang can _talk_ about Blake, she jabbers to anyone who’ll listen.

“Hey.” 

Yang lifts her head, turns her attention away from her workbench and toward the shop’s entrance. She meets Pyrrha’s greeting with a smile. “Hey. Didn’t know you were on today. Did the schedule shift?”

Pyrrha shakes her head, dropping her shoulder bag to the ground beside the door. “I’m just in need of a distraction.”

Yang tilts her head before looking back to the bench, observing the parts sitting on it as she speaks. “Everything okay?”

“I met Jaune’s family.”

“Doesn’t he have like, a bunch of sisters or something?”

“Seven.” The word comes out on an exhale, barely loud enough to hear.

Yang laughs at Pyrrha’s voice, the way she sounds like she’d just stepped out of a hurricane’s eye. “Seven extra Jaunes, huh. I don’t blame you for wanting to forget.”

“His mother wouldn’t stop squishing his cheeks.”

“They _are_ squishable.” 

“Yes, well, it got less amusing when she started talking about naming our children after her father.” Pyrrha lets a nervous giggle slip at the last word.

“ _Children?_ It’s been like, a month.”

“Taiyang asked you and I about children the first day I met him,” she points out, grinning at the memory.

Yang fights not to cringe at the mention, thinks back to the three-month fling she’d had with the redhead beside her nearly two years ago. They had just moved to New York, and met each other applying for a position at the very shop they stand in now. They’d worked the loneliness out of each other, and built a lovely friendship out of what remained. But taking Pyrrha back to visit California with her had been… something.

“He was eager.” Yang runs her gaze along each motor part laid in front of her. She does it again, and again, and again, and then she scowls. “I’ve torn this engine down three times. I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.”

“Which one? The Interceptor’s?” Yang nods, prompting Pyrrha to nudge her aside and look over everything herself. She picks up a few of the smaller parts, squints and turns them in her hand. Yang watches her closely, pleads with the universe to let her see the problem, to figure out what needs to be fixed. “It’s the crankcase,” Pyrrha says, finally. “There’s a crack.”

“What? Where?” Yang takes it from her, peers closely at it.

“There, near the first bend.” Pyrrha points the area out. “It’s small. You can probably see it better in the light.”

Yang tries to follow her finger, ignores the way her vision blurs at how close-up everything is, and— 

_There._ Right at the base of the first bend in the metal is a small crack, barely the size of a dog hair. Yang stares at it, debates trying to brush it off with her thumb in an attempt to brand it an illusion, but she doesn’t. 

She knows it’s a small mistake, that anyone could have missed it, but she huffs anyway. “I’ve been looking at this thing all day, and all it needed was a little welding.”

Pyrrha giggles and turns, making her way back toward the Thunderbird she’s been working on for the past few days. “It could be the inlet, too.”

Yang marks the crack down on a diagram of the part and reaches for a nearby cloth, wiping off her hands. “One thing at a time, Pyrrha.”

“Sorry!”

Yang turns around and leans back against the wood, watching the floor as she tries to plan the rest of her shift out. It’s only noon, and she has to weld the crankcase, replace a few rod bearings, and ready an intake for a new bike she has coming later in the day. Today’s one of her busier days, the kind where she considers sending Blake a quick text and telling her she’ll be a little later than usual. 

TIG welding doesn’t take as much time, so she can probably do that first. She has to check and make sure she’s got the right bearings for the other bike’s rods, but she’s pretty sure she does; the shop got a shipment of parts around a week ago. And she has to tidy up a fuel filter she’d forgotten about. It was starting to mess with a motorcycle’s throttle.

She’s so deep in thought when Pyrrha speaks again that she doesn’t hear it the first time. 

“Yang?” Pyrrha repeats, right eyebrow cocked and slightly amused. 

“Huh?”

“I asked if Taiyang knows about Blake.”

The name sends soft lights flashing underneath Yang’s eyelids, resembling lightning bugs and shooting stars. “What about her?”

Pyrrha can’t tell if Yang’s dazed or stupid. Or both. “That she’s your girlfriend.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ “No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know about that.”

“Gosh, do _you?_ ”

“Yes. Kind of.”

Pyrrha’s arms would probably be crossed if she wasn’t busy taking off a motorcycle’s tire. “You’ve been going on dates with her since the beginning of the month, haven’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But I didn’t really know it counted.”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“We haven’t, like, kissed or anything romantic like that.”

“I think it still counts. You don’t _have_ to kiss to be together.” A pause, then a realization. “Wait, you haven’t?”

Yang shakes her head, watches as Pyrrha pulls the front wheel away from the bike. “No. I don’t think she’s ready.” Pyrrha lifts her head for only a moment, prompts Yang to continue explaining. “She’s just cautious when it comes to these things. The relationship stuff. You can tell by the way she does things.”

“What, like, nervously?”

Yang considers that, thinks about it for a few minutes. “Not really? Kind of?” She sighs. “I don’t know. It’s like, she’ll start to do something ‘lovey’ and then stop when she realizes what it implies.”

That explains it perfectly. Blake will let loose, almost. Do something without thinking, reach a hand up to brush hair away from Yang’s eyes, and freeze in place like a deer in headlights. Like she wants to move, like it’s taking every ounce of strength in her body to keep herself still, but she suddenly can’t remember fluidity. Her eyes go from saying _“we exist”_ , to saying _“we shouldn’t”_ in a matter of seconds. Like she’s second guessing something she only wants to have to think about once to be sure of.

If Yang didn’t understand there’s something she’s not being told, she’d probably be upset by it, by the way Blake seems to pull back. But she does. She knows there’s always an untold story, and she knows everyone has their reasons. Especially Blake.

Yang wants to love Blake the right way. She wants to keep her comfortable, to make sure she knows she’s okay in Yang’s arms no matter how long it takes for her to get there. She doesn’t press, doesn’t ask why Blake acts the way she does sometimes, because she knows she’d know if she was supposed to. She’d like to know in the future, to help Blake battle the demons undoubtedly present when the two women are alone in the late hours of the night, but there’s no rush at all. She’s patient and she’s ready.

Pyrrha offers, “Maybe she just needs a little time?”

Yang responds with, “Of course. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

They talk for a little bit in between moments of pure focus, about when Yang was teaching Blake how to make makizushi, and rice ended up all over the floor. About the first time Yang had recited the Bee Movie monologue, and the way she went red at how happy Blake looked as she watched. About the times Blake read _The Heirs of Atlas_ to her, intent on making sure the cliffhanger hit Yang hard enough to stick with her for days. And Pyrrha listens without complaint. 

But, as always, duty calls, and when the building’s front door opens, Yang needs to pry herself away from the conversation and tend to whoever’s walked in.

“Just a sec!” she calls out, dropping her handful of bearings and grabbing a cloth. She wipes the oil from her fingers as she jogs toward the front counter. “Hey! Sorry about that. What’s up?”

Her eyes fall on a man, tall and broody, and he looks exactly like she remembers him, despite having seen him for only a moment nearly a month ago. His face is flat, lips pursed, and his eyes are yet again covered by black sunglasses. His red hair is still wild, maybe a little longer than it had been before. But he behaves the same. Sounds the same.

Like he’s just... there. 

And it really rubs Yang the wrong way. 

“I need to talk to Laurel. About a... cruiser he’s supposed to lend me.” 

Yang stands a bit straighter upon the manager’s mention. “Oh, alright. Can I have your name?”

She half expects the man not to answer, to say something like ‘you don’t need it’, because she doesn’t. She’s just curious.

“Adam.”

“Adam...?”

He stares in her direction for a long moment, silent. Yang’s not sure if he’s staring at _her_ , but she can practically feel her eyes battling unwanted attention as she looks straight at his lenses. 

“Taurus,” he says finally. 

  
  


\----------

  
  


**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Hi,

Great work on yesterday’s issue release. I have a feeling it will go well with the critics and bump our numbers up.

B. Belladonna

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

Hello!

That’s so good to hear. I hoped the photos would go down well. I went a little crazy with the filtering but you passed it so it must’ve been done well.

NV.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Hi,

Of course. You’ve always done well with winter photography, so I’m not surprised by your success.

Yang helped me with the final edits. She says “well done.” She’s watching the numbers closer than I am.

B. Belladonna

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

WHAHAT. YANG HOW IS SHE HOW ARE YOU GUYS

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

I am not doing this again. Blake. Nora. Please.

Please.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

We’re okay! She’s been busy but we’re probably going to figure out how to hang out soon.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————  
YOUO BETTER you always come back with the best stories

remember that time with the soup

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

There were multiple times with the soup. We’ve made a lot of it, she’s taught me like four recipes. 

If you’re referring to the time I spilled the jar of cumin into the broth, yes, I remember that, and shush. 

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

THAT WAS GREAT IM NOT LETTIN GYOU LIVE THAT DOWN 

YANG BETTER NOT EITHER

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

Are you seriously ignoring me right now?

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

She absolutely will not let me, she keeps trying to bring it up when we make soup. Which is why we haven’t done that in a week.

And yes.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

You’re insufferable. Both of you. I don’t even know why I talk to you.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

WAIBT can you make me soup ren is sick and i cant cook ill pay you

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

bcus you love us duh

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Sure. I can probably make some tonight and bring it in tomorrow if that’s okay?

And no, Weiss just leeches off of us for our success.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

PLEASE i dont know what the soup is called but its that one with the garlic and the ginger he likes that im pretty sure

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Oh, I know what you’re talking about. Hot and sour, right?

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

YEAH THAT ONE

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

I’m not the best at making that one yet so I’ll ask Yang to make some, she’s better at it.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

I’m going to violently murder both of you, oh my god. I’m getting Coco. You’re both getting fired.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _ _  
_ _To Weiss, Me_

———————

WAIT HAVE HER BRING IT HERSRFL I WANT TO MEET HER AM I ALLOWED TO

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

kiss my ass schnee

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

OH CRAP IM SOYRR I DIDNY MEAN TO SEND THAT

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

WEISS IM SORRY I LVEO YOU SO M

———————  
  
  
**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Nora, please breathe.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Wiess, Me_

———————

FUFKC

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

I swear to gods, I can hear you freaking out from down the hall. Calm down.

Blake, you didn’t answer her question.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Oh, you want an answer to it?

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

No. I want you both to stop blowing up my inbox.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0309@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Admit it, you’re curious.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Wiess, Me_

———————

AW WEISSSSS

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

Valkyrie, you’re on thin ice. 

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

sorry

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0903@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

See, Nora? She ignored it because it’s true.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

Fine. I’m curious. 

I love you. Of course I’m going to want to meet your girlfriend.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

WEISS SOFT HOURS

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0903@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

She’s not my girlfriend.

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

Right.

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

blake please 

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

Can we talk about this during lunch? I have an interview to look over.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0903@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Of course. Is it the one with Pollard?

———————

**_Schnee, Weiss_ ** _ <_ _wschnee0112@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Nora, Me_

———————

Violet Pollard, yes. I switched question six around with question seventeen, it fit the topic of conversation better.

———————

**_Belladonna, Blake_ ** _ <_ _bbelladonna0903@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Nora_

———————

Alright, I’ll mark that. Send the product over when you can and I’ll send you the revisions later.

B. Belladonna

———————

**_Valkyrie, Nora_ ** _ <_ _nvalkyrie0418@darlweek.com_ _> _

_To Weiss, Me_

———————

WAIT THAT INTERVIEW IS THIS MONTH

———————

  
  


\----------

  
  


“It’s so weird that we haven’t met her yet. You’ve known her for, like, a month now, right?” 

“About that.” Blake stands by the microwave, watches her food spin as it heats up. She presses her finger against the door, feels the cold metal, but knows it’s warm inside. It reminds her of something familiar. “The topic just hasn’t come up, I guess.”

Nora watches her, stirs her smoothie with her straw, and lets out a laugh so obnoxious, it echoes. “ _The topic hasn’t come up?_ Blake, you talk about the woman every other time you’re here.”

“It’s a miracle I still listen,” Weiss adds, sitting at the table beside the door. 

Blake scoffs. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“You force me.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It’s debilitating.” The words are dramatic, feeble.

Blake snorts. “And yet you thrive.”

Nora holds her hands up, eyes wide as she speaks in an almost offended tone. “Hell _ooo_? We have more important matters to discuss than Weiss’ health.”

The microwave beeps just after Weiss scowls, and Blake pulls it open as she talks. “I hardly think they need to be discussed.”

“They absolutely do.” Nora takes a long sip through her straw and makes a face. “Kiwis? Gross. Anyway.”

“She’s worried we won’t like her girlfriend,” Weiss says, pointedly. 

“I’m _not._ And she’s _not_ my girlfriend.” The words claw Blake’s throat up, like they don’t want to leave her body, like they don’t want to touch the air. She’s so reluctant to say them, it hurts. “We’re just talking.”

“Gods, is this what it feels like when _I_ repress?” Weiss stands, crosses her arms and looks at Blake with eyes so intense, Ares himself would look away without question. “Blake, you talk about Yang like she’s the only person you’ve ever seen. You literally act like _she_ ’s the first one you’d call during the apocalypse.”

 _She is._ “She’s not.”

“If there’s one thing you’re bad at, it’s lying,” Nora replies, pulling herself up to sit on the break room’s counter. “You’re saying that, but your face is all pained and... weird.”

“Hey!” Blake frowns, touches her fingertips to her cheek.

“She’s not wrong,” Weiss says. “Besides, I know you.”

Nora holds a finger up. “ _We_ know you.”

“We know you.”

Blake smiles slightly. She knows they mean well, that they care about her. They’re her friends, after all, the closest she’s had in awhile. It only makes sense they’d be curious about the woman she’s interested in. It only makes sense that they’d want to meet her. Blake would probably want to do the same. 

But meeting friends means… officiality to Blake. And as much as her heart yearns for the pair to be official, for them to be open… they can’t be. Because once things are official, once partnerships are stated, that’s when things get bad. That’s when things get dangerous. And Blake doesn’t want Yang to get hurt because of her own inability to control herself.

Weiss’ voice is strong, but cautious. It always is. Blake likes it, even when it’s shrieking. It doesn’t shriek this time. It just says “is it him?”

Blake finally pulls her container out of the microwave, watches the steam rise and evaporate. It does it quicker than she can answer, so she doesn’t.

Weiss’ face softens, her shoulders dropping. “You don’t have to be scared of him, you know. You’re safe.”

“I know,” Blake responds. She pulls a drawer open, pulls out a plastic fork. “But I don’t care. I’m not worried about _my_ safety.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Yang’s laugh sounds like church bells. Like trees swaying, like wind blowing, like the electric hum of a television when you first turn it on. It sounds like things so drastically different from each other, it should be impossible, but it’s not, because her laugh sounds like a collective everything, and it makes Blake’s heart forget to beat.

That’s why Blake forgets to answer sometimes. When Yang tells a joke and starts laughing before she can finish it, or when she asks an embarrassing question and can’t stop chuckling at herself. Blake just kind of stares, waits for the ocean in her head to calm down before she speaks.

It used to make things a little awkward, the way Yang’s laughter would trickle out into a couple of long, quiet moments, but she’s learned just to flash Blake a smile and move on to the next topic of conversation. They work with each other. Yang fills in the silence, and Blake keeps her company, gives her reason to push toward night time. 

At this point, it feels like Yang gets through the day solely to recite movie speeches with surprising, repetitive accuracy. And Blake doesn’t mind. 

Mostly.

“I’m not listening to you tell me why bees shouldn’t be able to fly.”

Yang, whose legs are up against the back of Blake’s couch and head is hanging upside down toward the floor, whines with a small grin. “But I’m so good at that one.”

“I know,” Blake replies, amusement clear in her eyes as she watches. She sits at the far end of the cushion, the perfect place to oversee Yang’s childish shenanigans. “You’ve performed it seven times.”

“Let’s make it eight.”

“ _Absolutely_ not.”

“I’m going to do it.”

Blake waves her hand in the air, turns her head back to her book as if she’s _actually_ paying attention to it. “I don’t have the energy to stop you.”

Yang rolls backwards off the couch, lands on the ground with a quiet _thump_ and pulls a throw pillow down to join her. She holds it to her chest and wraps her arms around it, resting her chin on the top of it as she peers up at Blake with gentle intensity. “You just like hearing me talk.”

Blake’s heart freezes at the callout, her chest bare of beating but full of heat. “The more you do it, the quicker it’s over.”

“And then you want it to start again like, two minutes later.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting that information, but it’s wrong.”

Yang laughs, and it’s better than any song Blake’s ever heard. “I’m getting it from you. Your face. You’re terrible with masking expressions.”

“I’m going to throw this book at you.”

“You? Like you’d ever lose your page that way.” Blake looks down into skeptical eyes, begins folding the corner of her current page down, and Yang holds her hands up. “Okay, okay! I take it back!”

“There you go.” Blake smooths the corner out, goes back to her previous task.

A minute barely passes before Yang speaks again. “Why don’t you have a bookmark or something? That folding thing is gross. I can’t be seen with you if you do that.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“Lies. You did it with your old books, too.”

Blake’s lips turn up at one corner, flattered that she’s worth enough attention for Yang to realize such a small detail. “I lose them.”

“Huh?”

“Bookmarks. I lose them. They always go missing.”

“Seriously?” Yang seems genuinely surprised when Blake nods. “That’s so weird. I would’ve thought you’d keep a better eye on them than your books.”

“Pfft, no. Besides, you know how wrinkles are signs of wisdom in people?” Yang nods this time. “Folds are signs of experience in books. I think it’s cool.”

Yang’s smile is so small and quiet, Blake probably wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t so nervous about a reaction. Lilac eyes brush over her, examine every feature on Blake’s face, every bend of her arms, every knuckle on her hand, and then settle on the novel she holds. “I don’t.”

Blake laughs, grabs the throw pillow beside her and whips it down where Yang sits. “You don’t even read.”

“I know! And I still have better book etiquette.” 

“ _Book etiquette._ ”

“Yeah, like cinema etiquette, but—”

“For books.” Blake smiles, shakes her head. “I put that one together.”

Things are quiet for a little bit. Yang sits with her legs criss-crossed on the floor, picking loose threads from the pillow in her lap, and Blake stares at the pages in front of her, pretends to read and take in the words until she can. 

This is how a lot of their nights end, now. After the bookstore, Yang comes back to Blake’s apartment until early morning, maybe three o’clock. Sometimes they watch movies, sometimes they cook. Sometimes they sit and do their own separate things, and the both of them being there in the same space is enough to keep them happy. 

Nights used to be quiet for Blake. A time for thinking, for deep thoughts and silence and otherworldly stories that just feel different when everything in the city is asleep. But they aren’t anymore, not usually. Now they’re a time for laughter and comfort and bonding with someone Blake really didn’t think she’d ever get to know. And she’s so, so okay with it.

Yang’s voice startles her just as she starts to read again, but she doesn’t mind the distraction. “I _do_ think it’s cool.”

“Huh?” 

Blake picks her head up, catches the way Yang’s cheeks flush as she answers. “The way you think about the folding thing. About how it shows experience. It’s thoughtful.”

Flowers grow from Blake’s brainstem, inching their way down her spine, through her veins, into her gullet. She can barely make a sound with the stems and petals in her throat but, to her surprise, she does. It doesn’t get her appreciation across, or her surprise, or her fluster, but she can make do with the quiet word that passes through her lips. “Okay.”

Her reaction only makes Yang smile, and she stares at her teeth, her chin, her lips, and she wants to move forward, wants to drop to her knees on the floor and cup the blonde’s face and meet their lips and hold them there and never move again—

But she doesn’t.

Yang says, “I’d still never do it.”

Blake laughs. It sounds more like a hiccup.

The rest of the hour is quieter. Blake gets back into her book, begins to meet the main antagonist, falls a little bit harder for the main character and his poise. Yang never moves from the floor, just sits there picking at the pillow. 

Blake sneaks a look from time to time, tries to catch a glimpse of what Yang’s doing; each time, she only sees Yang watching her, like she’s memorizing everything she can rest her gaze on. And the attention doesn’t entirely scare Blake this time. She’s not nervous about the open display of attraction, of adoration this time. 

This time, she bathes in it.

Until her phone beeps.

It startles the both of them, seems to knock Yang out of whatever trance she’d been in and makes Blake jump at the suddenness. They laugh at each other as Blake checks the message, as if they hadn’t been scared shitless at the exact same time.

 **_Nora:_ ** _hi did you ask yang about the soup_

 **_Nora_ ** _: i cant come in tomorrow because ren got worse but i can ask weiss to bring it by after work if you take it to your shift_

The new information makes Blake’s heart deflate a bit. Nora’s not going to be at the office tomorrow, meaning she won’t be able to meet Yang if Blake works up the courage to ask her to come by. Which nearly defeats the whole purpose of asking Yang to join her in the first place.

Unless they figure out a separate time to meet up.

“Hey, Yang?”

Yang looks away from the pile of old thread in front of her, meets Blake’s eyes with nonchalant curiosity. “What’s up?”

“I’ve never met Ruby.”

Yang thinks on the sentence for a moment, chews on the inside of her lip. She looks to be considering her options, how to respond. Like she wants to be sure she’s going to say the right thing. “Do you want to?”

Blake nods almost immediately. “You talk about her a lot. She seems sweet.”

“We can probably figure something out then.”

“A couple of friends of mine kind of want to meet you too?” The sentence shouldn’t sound like a question, but it does; Blake can be horrible at being outright.

“Which ones?”

“Nora and Weiss.” She’s talked about them before, a bunch of times; most recently during Blake’s last editing session, where Yang had sat at the café table across from her and tried her best not to be a distraction.

Yang’s smile builds instantly, and her voice sounds genuinely eager when she replies. “Oh, them? We should definitely figure something out. They seem fun.”

Air rushes from Blake’s lungs in a display of relief so great, it probably sounds like a wind. “Great. I’ll let them know.”

“And tell Nora I’m not like you. I’ll beat her in an arm wrestling match any day.”

Blake laughs, head still airy from the previous rush of repose. “I believe it.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


**_Blake_ ** _: We’re making the soup now_

 **_Blake_ ** _: I’ll bring it by your place before heading in_

 **_Blake_ ** _: Also are you free this weekend? Yang's down to meet up_

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry oliver i kept that word in LOL  
> (anecdoche. n. a conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening)

Blake is normally pretty good with directions. She tends to find apartments, shops, and buildings with ease. Going places for the first time is almost never something she needs to worry about or overthink, because she’s naturally good with navigation. 

Until Yang gives Blake her address, says it’ll probably be smarter for them to meet up at her place before joining Weiss, Nora and Ruby at the restaurant a few blocks away. Blake, curious about Yang’s apartment and also eager to see the woman at all, had immediately agreed with an impressive amount of vigor.

Vigor that slowly trickles away as Blake makes her way up stone stairs, toward a dusty red door that stands much more intimidating than it should. She’s never been bad with directions, never doubted her skill, but she starts to the very second she closes her fist and prepares to knock. 

Her tongue tastes sour as her mind works, telling her she might have the wrong apartment, that she might’ve written the wrong street name down. It tells her to turn back, to walk around the block one more time and make sure she didn’t miss the _actual_ apartment she’s supposed to be at. But she doesn’t. She keeps her feet planted on the floor, her shoulders squared, and her heart where it should be; not in her throat, but in her chest.

The knock sounds much louder than it should, like boulders falling and books slamming shut. It takes her by surprise, makes her eyes widen as if it’d genuinely made her fearful, and it kind of did. She knows who will open the door, knows she’ll see fiery hair and confident eyes, but it’s as if her head is convinced the wild hair will take the form of tendrils, and those eyes will stare destruction into her soul. 

But that just comes with anxiety, doesn’t it? The uncertainty of things you’re already sure of. Blake knows Yang isn’t destructive, that she’s sure and careful and steady. That there’s no reason to be nervous, and Yang’s apartment shouldn’t be anything different than Blake’s, give or take a few square feet. 

She visualizes Yang putting down whatever she’s doing, walking toward the door with that familiar nonchalance that always strikes Blake as surprising, and the closer imaginary Yang gets, the slower real Blake’s heart beats. 

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, waiting with her arms at her sides, but it’s long enough for her to start questioning the apartment number again. Not that that’d take long at all, of course.

She’s _just_ preparing to turn on her heel and step back down the stairs when the door opens, forcing a rush of warm air in her direction from the other side of the doorway. 

She freezes, blinks, stares right where her eyes land; Yang’s neck. Then she realizes it’s probably a little odd to be staring there, and lets her gaze move, take in Yang as a whole and find a better place to focus. 

Which proves to be a worse decision than simply staring, when Blake notices the way Yang’s black tank top fits perfectly against her torso like a second skin. And the way her sweats sit a little lower on her hips than they’re probably supposed to. And the way her skin shines with moisture, and the way her hair is yellow and wild like it’d just been let down, and the way her hands are still a little scuffed up from the shift she’s undoubtedly just come home from. All of it gives Blake’s heart a new reason to beat way too fast.

“Hey.” The words are amused, matching a grin that shows Yang must’ve expected the response, that says she’s surprised Blake’s mouth isn’t hanging open.

Blake doesn’t blame her, knows she can’t with the way nervous words tumble through her lips. “Hi. I was worried I came to the wrong place.”

Yang shakes her head, teeth still gleaming. “Nope. You’re here. C’mon, it’s warmer inside.” Her confidence seems to falter, replaced with brief embarrassment. “Sorry about the mess. I haven’t had time to clean.”

If it is warmer inside, Blake doesn’t notice; she’s still recovering from the heat that made its way up to her cheeks just moments before. She’s glad the place is messy, though. It gives her things to focus on, things to shove her thoughts toward that _aren’t_ how nice Yang’s shoulders are. She trips over a brown jacket, and she’s okay with it, because it gives her a reason to look down at the material and memorize its pattern, busy her eyes with something else.

Yang tosses Blake a look over her shoulder, walking almost skillfully toward her closet like she’s memorized a clear path through the clothes on her floor. “We’re going to Sage Dish, right? The diner near that one Target?”

Blake nods, leans against the wall behind her as she watches. “Yeah, it’s new.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I’ve seen it before.”

“There was a diner in its place a few years ago,” Blake offers. “It wasn’t nearly as good, though.”

“Think the food will be better than mine?” Yang’s tone is playfully cocky, like she expects flattery.

“Absolutely.”

It falls, and she laughs. “No shame, wow. That’s almost painful.”

Blake smiles, crosses her arms. “Truth hurts.”

“Is this payback for my jokes about your cumin soup?”

“It is.”

Yang chuckles as she pulls her closet door open. She looks over the hanging clothes for a few minutes, putting outfits together in her mind. Blake watches her back, surprised that she’d never noticed the way Yang’s biceps bend and dip like she’s been holding the sky up her entire life. 

“You look nice,” Yang says, grabbing a few items and draping them over her forearm. “You always do, obviously. You just… you look nice now, too. That’s what I meant.”

Blake giggles at the fumble for words, covers her mouth with her hand as Yang turns around to face her. “Thank you. You don’t look terrible.”

“That’s the closest I’ve gotten to a compliment.” Yang grins. “Maybe I’ll get there soon.”

“I’ve complimented you!”

“You have _not_.” Yang holds up a finger before Blake can answer, chuckles as she says, “Saying ‘you’re so dumb’ in an affectionate tone does not count as a compliment.”

Blake huffs, but her stubbornness is unconvincing under the gaze of the girl she’s smiled at so many times before. “I think it does.”

Yang lets out a dismayed sigh, dramatic and fabricated. “I just want to be called beautiful.”

Blake ties on a mask of nonchalance quicker than she can tie her own shoes, and says, “You’re beautiful.”

The blonde only laughs and turns away. “I know.”

“Cocky.”

“Duh.”

“Unless you’re hiding a blush.”

Yang snorts. “I don’t blush.”

“Liar. I’ve seen it.”

“Okay, I’ve blushed once.”

“Three times.”

“ _Fine_. Three times.” Blake watches Yang’s hands grab the hem of her shirt, pull up a little bit before freezing. “Are you okay with me changing?”

Blake knows what she means, that she’s asking permission to change in _front_ of her, but the words fall out before she can stop them. “It’s _your_ room.”

“Belladonna.”

Blake’s heart freezes, drops to her stomach, rises again. “Yes. I’m okay with it.”

“You can still turn around if it’s more comfortable.”

Blake nods and turns around, swallows back reluctance she doesn’t really understand as she searches for something to focus on. She looks over a poster hanging on the wall, sees a woman with violet hair and red lips and a daring smile that sits on the verge of scary. 

“It’s from _Ragged Night_ ,” Yang explains, voice slightly muffled as she pulls her shirt over her head. “That movie with those girls that break into a god’s realm and take it over.”

“Megan Fox is in it, right?” 

“Yeah!” Yang sounds delighted over Blake’s awareness. “Have you seen it?”

Blake smiles at the enthusiasm. “I haven’t, no. But I’ve read the book.”

“Pfft, of course you have. Was it good?”

“It was okay. Read kind of like the Bible.”

“Any book with _those_ characters should be a religious text. I’d memorize the whole thing.”

Blake laughs. “I thought you were an atheist.”

“Agnostic,” Yang corrects. “But I’d—”

“Don’t say it.”

Yang laughs, and the sound calms Blake’s nerves in the same way water tames fire. It feels similar, too. “You can turn around now.”

Blake stands still for a moment, wills herself to keep collected; it’s been a month since they’d met, a month of banter and jokes and hanging around and even fucking _hand holding_ , and she still struggles to keep calm around Yang. It tends to get frustrating, but the frustration washes away as easily as her confidence whenever she takes Yang in.

And it is _so_ hard to be irritated when she turns around and sees Yang smiling, holding her arms out as if to say “how’s this?”

It’s such an innocent gesture, and it matches so _well_ with the clothes she’s put on. Blake holds back a smile, takes in the way Yang’s yellow hoodie looks like home, like a blanket, like something perfect to lean on.

 _You look nice_ , Blake wants to say.

_You’re so pretty._

_Can I kiss you?_

But she doesn’t, because she can’t string the words together, can’t turn them into a sentence. And, as she observes the woman in front of her, a part of her reminds her it’s better that way. That her silence is safer than words.

Yang tilts her head, lets out a chuckle that makes a home in the atmosphere surrounding it. “I’ll take that as a ‘wow, Yang! You look great!’” 

“That’s a good idea.” 

“Was I close, at least?”

Blake watches Yang for a few moments, takes in the curve of her mouth and the purple in her irises and the pink centered in her cheeks. She sees the light in Yang’s eyes, the way she carries herself with soft purpose and a ridiculously easy amount of energy. And she smiles. Looks at Yang, closes her eyes slowly, and opens them even slower. “Yeah. Something like that.”

And Yang’s resulting grin is enough to make Blake forget every worry she’s ever thought, every bad memory she’s ever held onto, and every anxiety she’s ever let dictate her actions when it comes to the person before her.

Blake used to hate looking at the sun as much as the next person. Hated the way it hurt her eyes, the way it gave her blind spots. 

Now she can’t get enough of it.

Yang washes her hands before they leave, makes sure to get all the minuscule specks of dirt from her fingers. Blake watches, shrieks a little when Yang flicks cold water at her and laughs at her panic. 

“I’ll get you back,” Blake says. 

Yang only responds with sarcasm. “I’m terrified.”

Blake surprises herself as they leave the apartment, after Yang fumbles with her keys and locks the door. They’ve just stepped down the stairs; the cold air is digging through their clothes and burrowing into their skin, and Yang tucks her hands into her pockets. 

But Blake doesn’t like it. So she uncurls her fingers, bends her elbow, and holds out her hand for Yang to see. Her heart beats so much faster than she expected it to, and her head sounds like warning bells and fireworks and party poppers and gunshots and a soft, gentle guitar. 

And then Yang takes her hand. She interlocks their fingers, runs her thumb along Blake’s knuckles, lets their arms fall between them as they walk. And immediately, Blake’s mind goes quiet, leaving only the sound of hopeful rain and swaying expectation.

It feels wonderful.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Yang’s definitely a people person. She always has been, since childhood; she never stuck around a specific group of kids, would always switch around and travel between cliques and spend time with whoever would have her, and she was almost always welcome. 

She thinks that’s why she gets along so well with the people Blake knows. Two women with drastically different personalities; one who looks like she’s been waiting her entire life to live in whatever moment she’s experiencing, and another who looks like she’d rather die than take another breath, but does it anyway. She likes them both. 

Nora had been utterly thrilled the very moment she set her eyes on Yang’s face, recognizing her features from the numerous times Blake had low-key fawned over them in the break room. 

She’d immediately stood up from her chair, slammed her elbow down on the tabletop in front of her and exclaimed, “let’s fucking _do this_ , baby!”

That was quickly shut down by Weiss’ gentle swat at the back of her head, and Blake’s amused “maybe a family diner isn’t the best place for arm wrestling.” 

Yang promised her a match later.

Upon seeing Weiss, Yang knew exactly what kind of person she would be by the way her face _screamed_ exaggerated claims of “I’d rather be anywhere but here” and “I’m only doing this because it’s my job”; the kind of person who thought the opposite.

“Weiss Schnee,” the woman had said, extending a pale, poised hand. “You’re Yang.”

“I am,” Yang replied, being sure to keep her grip firm and eager, like she _knew_ it would annoy her new acquaintance in a completely acceptable way. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You sound like you’re constantly annoyed.”

And, to Yang’s complete surprise, Weiss had mirrored her hand’s firmness. “As have I,” she’d answered, and her lips turned up just enough for the blonde to notice, but not enough for her to mention. “And I am. But I’m here anyway.”

“Because you need to be?” 

“Because I care.”

Now, nearly thirty minutes later, all four of the women are enveloped in a dramatic discussion about whether or not Mozart could win in an arm wrestling match against Chopin. The topic was somehow brought up after Nora, still eager to go against Yang, asked if they could schedule a match following a brief discussion about overrated music genres. 

It’s a heated debate.

“Okay, but have you _seen_ Mozart’s arms? They’re fuckin’ huge!” Yang punctuates the statement with wide eyes, placing her palms on the table and leaning forward in a gesture of pure and unapologetic passion. 

Blake laughs, says, “Yang, _no_. No one’s seen his arms.”

“So? They’re _probably_ beefy as _fuck_.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Nora agrees, one cheek holding her food as she talks. “He played so much cello. Imagine how much _muscle_ that gives you.”

Weiss tries to mask her interest with annoyance as she watches the woman swallow. “He played piano, Nora.”

“He played violin, too,” Yang points out, picking up a french fry and pointing it at the white haired woman across the table. “It’s the same thing.”

Weiss scoffs. “It is _not_ the same thing.”

Nora sits up straighter. “It basically is!”

Blake only sits back in her chair and crosses her arms, watches her friends argue with an amused smile. 

“It is not,” Weiss argues. “Have you even played one? You have to hold a _completely_ different form than the one you hold for a violin.”

“Weiss is a musical genius,” Blake informs. “She knows.”

Nora takes a long sip through her straw and swallows before speaking. “Maybe _she_ could beat Chopin.”

Yang snorts. “But she’s so fragile. _And_ Chopin played piano. That takes a lot of strength. Smooth movement, too.”

Blake mutters a brief “uh-oh” before Weiss tosses a curled-up napkin in Yang’s direction. “I am _not_ fragile!”

Yang catches it, throws her head back and laughs. “I feel like you’d threaten him to forfeit. With a cello bow or something.”

“I’ll threaten _you_ with a cello bow,” Weiss warns, scowling.

“I’m terrified.”

Blake sits up briefly, takes the lemon from the rim of her cup. “I think Chopin would do well.”

“Against Weiss?”

“Against Mozart.”

Yang mock frowns, holds her hand to her chest. “My own kind? Going against me? How could you?”

Blake snorts, raises an eyebrow. “‘Your own kind’? What kind would that be?”

Yang shrugs. “Hot.”

“And utterly intolerable,” Weiss adds, picking another napkin up off of the table. 

Blake’s mouth is dry when she speaks again, and she prays her tongue isn’t too thick to speak with. “What about Weidinger?”

Yang tilts her head, focus immediately shifted. “That one guy that played the trumpet?” Blake nods. “He’s not a composer, he doesn’t count.”

“So?” Nora says, reaches over and takes a fry from Yang’s plate. “I don’t know who he is, but he sounds beefy.”

“If you say ‘beefy’ one more time, I’m going to hurt you,” Weiss says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Nora only grins. “I could wreck you. I’ve been boxing for six years.”

“I know. And I’ve been fencing for twelve.”

Yang grins, dips the fry she’s been holding into her milkshake and tosses it into her mouth. “Fencing, huh? Why?”

Weiss shifts in her seat. “My father’s choice. It grew on me.”

Yang catches the movement, nods her head once, and decides to shift the topic. She knows the signs of discomfort. “My dad had me in self defense classes for a few months, but he gave up on them and decided to teach my sister and I himself.”

Blake sinks her teeth into the lemon slice in her hand, speaks once she pulls it away. “Where is Ruby, anyway? Wasn’t she supposed to be here, like, twenty minutes ago?”

“She said she’ll probably be late. She forgot to tell her friend she had somewhere to be.” Yang smiles fondly. “She’s forgetful. She’ll be here soon.”

Nora picks her head up. “You have a sister?”

Yang nods. “Did Blake not tell you she’s coming?”

“She did,” Weiss says. “Nora just has the memory of a goldfish.”

“Great.” Yang laughs. “They’ll get along just fine, then. You’re actually a lot like her, Nora. Just… a little more chaotic, I think.”

Weiss sighs dramatically, picks a pile of napkin shreds up from her lap and drops them onto her empty plate. “That’ll be a nightmare.”

Nora picks up a wrapped straw, rips off the end of it, and blows it’s wrapper straight at Weiss’ nose. She sticks her tongue out when Weiss gasps and catches it with her hand. 

Ruby finally arrives around ten minutes later, jogging into the restaurant and up to the table with both excitement _and_ guilt written on her face.

“I’m sorry!” The words rush from her mouth, high pitched and purely apologetic. “I was with Penny. I totally forgot we were supposed to meet.”

Blake smiles, stands from her chair and opens her arms. “It’s totally fine, don’t worry about it. They’ve kept themselves occupied. It’s nice to meet you.”

Ruby accepts Blake’s offered embrace, beaming. “It’s nice to meet you too! Yang talks about you all the time. It’s like she’s obsessed. She always has, like, these stories to tell? And she was telling me about this one time when she tried to recite a poem to you, but she couldn’t—”

“ _Ahem_.” Yang’s voice sounds from behind Blake, and she chuckles softly. “I think that’s fine, Rubes.”

“Sorry! I’m nervous. What’d I miss?”

“Fuck yeah! A new perspective.” Nora points at Ruby as she sits down, peers at her through squinted eyes. “Who would win in an arm wrestling battle; Mozart or Chopin?”

“Or Weidinger,” Blake adds.

Ruby answers immediately, taking a chicken strip off of Yang’s plate without a second thought. “Mozart. He looks like he has big arms.”

“See!” Yang exclaims, throwing her hands up. “That’s what I said!”

Blake grins, shakes her head. “You’re delusional. Chopin would win without a problem. He literally plays piano. That takes so much precision.”

“Mozart would hand Chopin his own _ass_ ,” Nora replies, finishing her milkshake and continuing to suck through the straw as it rumbles with emptiness. 

“That’s not the right phrase, Nora,” Weiss says.

“It is now.”

Ruby leans forward on her elbows. “Who’s that Weindinger guy?”

Yang shrugs. “Some trumpeter.”

Weiss scoffs. “‘Some trumpeter.’ You’re so uneducated.”

“What, did they teach that in college or something? I didn’t go.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Yang laughs, tosses Weiss’ old napkin back at her. “Ouch.”

“Aren’t trumpets, like, super heavy?” Ruby grabs another chicken strip, prompting Yang to slide her entire plate over. The noirette indulges gratefully. 

“Two pounds,” Weiss says. “Not heavy at all.”

“Okay, but you need a strong face to play a trumpet.”

Blake chokes, gives Yang a weird look. “Yang? What does a strong face have to do with arm wrestling?”

“Confident expression.”

“You would know.”

The rest of the meeting goes well. Ruby and Nora launch into a deep, dramatic discussion about whether or not the aforementioned classical composers would do well in the Hunger Games, and what weapons they’d be good with; Ruby says Mozart would do well with a crossbow, and Nora claims it'd only make sense for Chopin to use a spear. They both agree that Mozart would win, unless he and Chopin pull a Katniss and Peeta.

Blake and Yang watch them, amusement written all over their faces. Yang butts in at times, argues some zealous point with wide eyes and ardent words, and Blake counters with her own opinions, even if they don’t really matter to her at all; she just likes conversing.

They take breaks to watch each other, stray away from conversation and start their own anedoches because they’d really just do anything to watch each other’s lips move, listen to each other speak. Yang reaches across the table sometimes, runs her fingertips over the back of Blake’s hand. They brush ankles under the table, and it sounds like it’d be such an odd display of affection, but when you’re desperate to feel the spark that results from touching the person you can’t stop thinking about, it becomes enough.

Weiss simply watches, lets an occasional, small smile slip through and only scolds Yang and Blake for staring at each other twice. She’ll never admit it, not easily, at least, but she’s glad Blake has someone. She’s even more glad it’s someone that treats her well. She’s even _more_ glad that it’s Yang.

She lets everyone hug her before they leave. 

  
  


\----------

  
  


“I kind of thought Weiss wanted to kill me when we first walked in,” Yang laughs. 

Blake smiles, lazily nudges her side as they walk down the sidewalk, leaving their taxi behind. “Yeah. She tends to give off that vibe at first. I promise she’s not that bad.”

“I believe you.” Yang says. She goes quiet for a moment, chews the inside of her cheek as she considers what she plans to do next. Then, with forced nonchalance that undoubtedly seems natural from practice, she reaches an arm over Blake’s shoulders and tugs her snuggly to her side. It feels perfect. “I like her.”

Yang half expects Blake to pull away, to hold her hands up and walk backward in the direction she came, but she doesn’t. Instead, she tucks her chin against Yang’s chest and breathes out softly. 

They don’t really talk for the rest of the walk to Blake’s place. They just kind of… breathe together. Blake wraps her arms around Yang’s torso at one point, and it feels right. Everything feels right. The sky, the setting sun, the weeds growing in between cracks in the concrete, the breaks in the bricks making up the buildings around them. Everything feels like it exists simply to be the way it is right then. 

Yang lives for it, and she knows Blake does, too. 

Wind blows, tosses Yang’s hair around like it always tends to. Blake only presses closer; whether it’s to get away from the cold, or to fall into Yang like she’s a lifeline, neither of them really know. 

Neither of them complain.

It’s almost torture when Blake pulls away. Yang feels like she’s losing a part of her, like she’s losing a limb, and wonders if she’ll notice the loss, feel its phantom pains.

They walk up the stairs to Blake’s front door in silence, and the sound of their footsteps on the concrete is too loud.

“I should let David know I’ll be late,” she says. “He normally gets his new shipment today. I always help him unload.”

Yang smiles down at her, offers a little nod. “Tell him I said hi.”

“Are you sure you can’t come?” The words are disappointed, nearly pleading. 

Yang’s heart twists. Blood gets trapped in the bottom half. “I need to help Ruby with a project. It’s a pretty big grade.” _I wish I could_.

Blake reaches forward for Yang’s hand, takes it in both of hers and runs both of her thumbs along the back of it. “Right.”

Leaving is always the hardest part. They’d spend forever together if they could. They both suck at goodbyes, no matter how brief. They feel unnatural. 

Yang sucks in a breath, holds it in her lungs, and lifts her free hand. She brings it up to Blake’s chin, tucks her pointer finger underneath it and tilts her head up softly. 

Blake’s eyes widen just a bit, a breath catches in her throat. She blinks once, slowly. Her pupils dilate as she meets Yang’s gaze, but she doesn’t move. She stays still, keeps Yang’s hand in both of hers, and waits.

It takes Yang a moment to work up the courage. She’s worried she shouldn’t, that Blake’s not ready, that she should wait. But then she thinks back to the way Blake had watched her lips as she spoke, thinks back to the way they’d brushed against each other at every opportunity, and grows courage.

She tilts her head down. Brings her lips to Blake’s. Sucks in a breath. And—

Blake pulls away. She backs up, drops Yang’s hand, trips and bumps into the banister behind her. “I’m sorry. I—”

Yang holds her hands up, shakes her head with a soft smile, though her throat aches with guilt. “It’s okay! It’s okay. Please.”

Blake watches her, eyes full of fear— 

No, not of fear. Of embarrassment. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I just... okay.” She hurriedly scoots away from the woman in front of her, trips again over her own heel as she shoves her keys into the door’s lock. Her hands shake, her breaths are shrill, but _finally_ , she gets it open, falls into her apartment and goes to shut it. Just before it closes, she lets out a soft, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then the door shuts. And Yang’s alone, standing on Blake’s front steps. 

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake doesn’t cry. It’s not her thing, not something she does. She despises the way it makes her throat feel swollen, the way tears dry on her cheeks and burn. But she gets so, _so_ close when she closes her door.

She slams her back into it the second it’s shut, prays to _anything_ that Yang hadn’t heard the _thump_ , and holds her hands to her neck. She squeezes softly as she breathes, wills the pressure to calm her down, to get her lungs working, to hold her tears back.

And it does. Her eyes dry. But her throat feels like it expands, and her head pounds, and her lungs ache so much more than they’re supposed to, and it feels like she’s drowning in the tears she’s holding in.

She wanted the kiss. She wanted it so badly. And she wanted everything that comes with it.

But she wasn’t sure if Yang did. 

  
  


\----------

  
  


**_Yang:_ ** _hey. im sorry if i scared you, i should have waited and i should have asked. i hope you have a good night. please don’t feel bad. im here if you need anything._

  
  


\----------

  
  
  


Yang sees the cat again that night, as she’s walking to Ruby’s place. It sits in the hallway, right in the middle, like it wants to block her path. 

She expects it to run away from her as she approaches, to bolt down the stairs she’d just come up, and it does. But it waits a few moments. It lets her step a little closer, watches her with curious eyes. And then it shoots forward, weaves through her feet in the direction Yang had come from. 

Only this time, when Yang peeks at the usual can of tuna she leaves by her door, she sees it empty. 

And she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . sorry


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets all thank my editor for talking sense into me when i panicked about the first section and almost deleted it bc im dramatic

Blake kind of likes the way typing sounds. She always has, since she was a kid listening to her mother tap away on her keyboard. It’s how she fell asleep most nights, actually. She’d be laying down in her bed, listening to her mother write in the next room. Eventually, the sound of keys tapping would blur, create a melody Blake wouldn’t remember in the morning, and lull her to sleep.

She thinks her grown dependence on the sound is partially to blame for the fact that she tends to sleep better with background noise. She can rest without it, of course, but it feels… different. Not as refreshing. So her nightly background of choice is the third season of  _ Two Broke Girls _ . 

Falling asleep to typing as a kid definitely came with some cons. Like how she still tends to grow tired while she works at her office, making revisions and tapping away at the keys in front of her. She listens to the clicking, the sound the plastic makes underneath her fingertips, and suddenly, she’s back in her childhood bedroom, underneath her purple quilt.

She can proudly say she hasn’t yet fallen asleep on the job, however. She’s lost focus, spaced out, but she’s never fallen asleep, and she takes that as a victory. Not that anyone would really know if she  _ had _ slept, though; her office windows have blinds, and nobody tends to visit her in person. 

Except for Weiss, who started to do so frequently after Nora and Blake’s repetitive and, in her opinion, much too energetic conversations about Yang. Now, she takes every opportunity she can to deliver and say things in person, and avoid another in depth discussion about whatever shenanigans Yang Xiao Long and Blake Belladonna had taken part in the night before. It doesn’t really  _ bother  _ her. She just has a reputation to keep up. 

Blake is thankful for Weiss’ sudden preference for in-person interaction when her office door opens abruptly, right as she approaches the edge of drifting off at her desk. She hadn’t found sleep the night before, and it’s definitely been wearing her down,

She shoots upward at the sound of the doorknob turning, stands in front of the chair she’d just been sitting on, and holds her hands by her side. “I’m fine! I’m fine.”

Weiss, holding a decent sized box of pamphlets and magazines, raises an eyebrow. “Cool? I’m glad.” She strides across the room, taller than usual on account of the white heels she wears, and drops the box onto Blake’s desk. She hums at the  _ thump _ , satisfied. “These are the rough draft designs for next week. I like the third one.”

“Oh.” Blake stares at the box for a second, then reaches forward and pulls it toward her. She pulls the third design out, flips through it, and then wrinkles her nose. “I don’t.”

Weiss scowls. “Fine then. I expect you to be smart with whatever decision you make.”

Blake smiles slightly, meets Weiss’ disgruntled gaze. “I’m kidding. I’ll take a better look at it when you leave.”

Weiss’ expression switches immediately, from one of irritation to one of contentment. “Thought so.”

Blake snorts, picks up the box and places it on the floor beside her desk. “You’re such a princess.

“Shut up.”

Blake watches as Weiss crosses her arms. She turns around, walks back to the open door without another word, and then suddenly, Blake has so much to say. Words sit on the tip of her tongue, thousands of them, desperately trying to pull her lips apart and get out and touch the air and be heard. 

Her mind moves faster the closer she gets to being alone in the room, listing reasons why telling Weiss is a good idea and reasons why it’s not, and she doesn’t know which option makes more sense, which one she’ll regret not going with. Her thoughts are waves, wild and roaring, and she  _ wishes _ she could ask a seafarer how he sails his.

She watches a pale hand reach for a silver doorknob, watches slender fingers close around it and pull —

“Weiss!” They freeze. “I bailed.”

Weiss turns around. Blue eyes meet gold, a white eyebrow cocks in pure confusion. “Bailed?”

The words tumble from Blake’s mouth quicker than she can organize them. “Yang tried to kiss me but I bailed. I ducked and I stepped back and I hid.”

Weiss’ hand drops away from the door. She steps back to Blake’s desk, expression just a little less hard than usual. “You hid?”

Blake nods, plops down in her desk chair and holds her head in her hands. “I hid in my apartment. I left her standing on the stairs. I ignored her apology text.” She sighs deeply. “She thinks it’s her fault.”

“But it’s not.” It’s a flatly spoken suggestion. 

Blake nods, presses her palms against her eyes. “It’s not.”

“You looked all over her at dinner.”

“I was.” She nearly whines the words. “I really was. But I got scared.”

“Of what?” Weiss is standing behind Blake’s computer now, looking down at her. She doesn’t look judgmental, doesn’t look vexed. She just looks like she’s listening. 

“Of what comes after.”

“What, like, sex?” She  _ prays _ Blake doesn’t need that kind of pep talk.

Blake shakes her head, pulls her hands away from her face and joins them in her lap. “A relationship.” Weiss watches her play with her thumbs as she talks. “It’s been three years since the last one.” 

_ Since Adam. _

Weiss’ heart freezes, understands the connotations before her mind does. She watches the woman in front of her, shrunken down in her chair and fidgeting nervously, and feels her eyes soften completely. Her tone matches well, pushing through her aching throat and still coming out gentle. “You can’t let him hold you back, Blake. Your life is more than him.”

The other’s voice is quiet. “But it  _ wasn’t. _ It was only him for so long.”

Weiss swears she feels her heart break, feels it crack right into two halves and crumble. “I know. But you're free now.”

“Am I? If I just… if I worry about him finding me the very second he gets out?” Blake looks up, meets Weiss’ gaze, with pupils wide and still. “If I worry about him finding  _ Yang _ ?”

“He’s not going to.” Weiss says the words like a promise, like something she’d die to keep true to. She doesn’t even think to tell her he already might’ve, doesn’t think to give her reason to twiddle her thumbs faster. Grip a little tighter. Break bone.

“I hope not.” Blake exhales slowly, feels her breath leave her lungs and imagines them empty. “I really want to love her, Weiss.”

“So love her.” 

Her voice shrinks. “But I’m scared.” 

Weiss’ eyes search Blake’s face, trying to pluck missing words from in-between her lashes, from underneath her lids. She’s content with what she finds. “Do it anyway.”

“Weiss.”

“Do it anyway,” she repeats. 

“How?”

“I can’t tell you. But you’re brave. You’ve pushed through fear before, Blake.” Both of them know what she’s referring to, and both of them remember it as clear as day, though they try not to. “This isn’t different.”

“But _ this _ is for  _ Yang _ .”

“Exactly.” 

Blake watches her, holds her stare. It’s not upset, or intimidating or a fight for preeminence. It’s just steady, like she’s trying to think about what to say next, about how to convey her emotions. 

She knows what Weiss means; this is the same as any other situation, as the last situation. She’d had to swallow her tongue, push through her apprehension and make the move for her goal. But Blake really doesn’t think the circumstances are identical at all. 

“Not ‘exactly.’” She shakes her head. “This isn’t the same, Weiss. I’m not just trying to get out of a bad place. I’m not just trying to get out of a bad relationship. I’m trying to get  _ into _ a good one while running from my past. That is  _ not _ the same.”

Weiss listens to Blake speak, purses her lips as she takes the words in and realizes her mistake. She was wrong. It’s not the same. Because Blake has more to protect than just herself this time. And it would only make sense for Blake to put more energy into protecting her loved one than into protecting herself.

“I’m sorry. That was my mistake.”

“It’s okay,” Blake says, and her tone is genuine. “It’s fine. It’s just… complicated. She doesn’t know.”

“About Adam?"

“No.”

Weiss crooks an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell her?”

Blake frowns. “I kind of have to. I can’t let her go into something she’s not fully prepared for.”  _ I have to give her a chance to back out. _

“Do you know when?”

“No. I figure I still have time to think it over while he’s in prison.”

Weiss’ heart stops. Her mouth tastes sour, the air smells sour, everything is sour. Everything feels like lies. It makes her want to wrinkle her nose and pucker her lips and yell the truth into the atmosphere, watch the way it changes into something she can handle, something she can breathe. But she doesn’t. She only nods.

Blake’s nervous wavering brings her back, pulls her by her braid. “I hope I didn’t ruin things.” 

“By bailing?” 

“Yeah. And by leaving her on my steps in the cold. And by ignoring her text. And by not texting her good morning.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Weiss says, shaking her head. The words are honest, but wrapped in affection. “It’s Yang. All you need to do is say her name. She’ll carry on like nothing ever happened.”

“You’ve only been around her once.”

“For two hours,” Weiss points out. “I only need one to figure a person out.”

Blake’s lips turn upward, just enough for Weiss’ eyes to notice. “All these years and I’ve never known you’re a psychic.”

“Don’t make a mockery of my talent.”

“ _ Talent. _ ”

Weiss scowls, expression switching with the mood. “I’ve done nothing to warrant insults.”

“I know.” Blake’s voice goes from teasing to pacific. “I appreciate it.”

“You better.” 

She smiles at the tone change. Weiss is back, as expectant and supercilious as ever, and while her voice is poised and steady, her eyes remain soft and pliant. 

Blake wants to get one more question out of the way before the other woman leaves. “What should I do?”

Weiss looks at her like it’s the easiest question to answer in the world, like she’s dumbfounded her friend could’ve been so clueless. “You see her.”

“When?”

“I don’t  _ know _ . I’m not a planner.” She sees Blake’s eyes, the way they watch her hopefully, and sighs. “The bookstore you’ve been going to. She goes there, right?”

“Yeah. Most nights, when she doesn't have work.”

“Meet her there. I don’t care if you need to text her and let her know, or if you just cross your fingers and hope she shows up. Be there.”

“What am I supposed to  _ talk _ to her about? I can’t just… bring up what happened. It was horrifying.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Talk about your Christmas plans and your favorite breakfast foods. Or the kiss. And lack thereof.”

Blake snorts, sits forward and pulls her computer keyboard closer to her side of the desk. “You’re lucky I let you boss me around.”

“I’d do it regardless.”

“I know you would.”

Weiss wishes Blake luck before she leaves. 

Blake tries to match her typing with the sound of Weiss’ heels hitting the floor.

  
  
  


\----------

  
  


It tends to take a few days to put inventory away when David’s shipments come in. He gets so ahead of himself while ordering, writes down every title that’s ever caught his eye, yet the store always seems to have enough room for the new books. It would definitely surprise Blake if she didn’t already assume the store grows bookshelves from its wooden floor as needed.

David says the December shipment is always a little harder. It comes on the twenty-second, and the store always closes for Christmas Eve and day, leaving only  _ two days _ to unbox, organize, and restock instead of the usual week.

It’d probably go much quicker if he and Blake didn’t get along so well; then, they wouldn’t be as distracted and inattentive. But he doesn’t mind her company, tends to prefer it over anything else, because it’s nice to have someone that reminds him so much of a daughter.

He doesn’t complain when Yang joins in, either. Instead, he welcomes her with a wide smile, as he has for the past couple of weeks. He’s developed a soft spot for her, too, and it’s always entertaining watching her and Blake tiptoe around the truth as they tease each other and disguise oblivious intent behind their words.

Besides, he kind of needs the extra help.

Blake’s more than thankful for the old man’s leniency, because it’s undoubtedly one of the reasons she and Yang are as close to each other as they are. Blake reads until Yang comes along, gets her up out of that green chair. Then, they help David around the store, recount books and sales and organize titles while laughing and bantering and turning the air surrounding them into the foundation of a home even stronger than it was before. They cherish that time together, all three of them, because it pulls them closer. And then they leave, David closes the shop for the night, and each of their bloodstreams run stronger.

It’s a shame Blake will have to wait days to come back. Winding down there is always a big part of her night. Reading in her chair gives her the escape she’s always craved, and hanging around with Yang does the same. She values David and his tea, too. So she’s trying to make the best of tonight’s visit.

“I’m considering making fruitcake or something,” she says, sitting on her wonky stool with her knees pulled to her chest. She holds a warm mug in both hands, and says the sentence like an absent thought.

“Fruitcake?” Yang’s voice rings out from behind a bookshelf, followed by the sound of a box hitting the floor. “Seriously?”

Blake shrugs, pulls her cup to her lips and speaks into it. “I’ve never tried it. It looks interesting.”

“It  _ looks _ interesting, but it tastes gross.”

“You’ve had it?”

“Multiple times.” Yang lets off a theatrical sigh. “I keep giving it chances. Disappoints me every time.”

“You’re just close-minded. You don’t have appreciation for flavor.”

“Big talk for someone who hasn’t even tasted it.”

Blake laughs, knows she’s caught but doesn’t surrender. “I probably have a pretty good idea.”

Yang pokes her head out from behind the shelves, hair framing her shoulders like it’s backing her up. “You barely know how to cook. You have no room to talk.”

“Neither do you.” Blake knows it’s a lie.

“You can’t just ignore my talent because you’re sour,” Yang points out, grinning. 

Blake scowls, ignores the smile crawling at the ends of her lips. “Watch me.”

“I love to.”

And there goes Blake’s heart, freezing like it always does when Yang says things like that. When she speaks adulation with chilling nonchalance, like she’s practiced the words in her mirror so many times they’ve become natural, though Blake knows she’d never need to do something like that.

Blake’s eyes run along Yang’s face, skim over the arch of her brows and the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. She looks like she’s been carved from stone, from marble, by the hands of an ancient Greek sculptor with all the time in the world. And Blake regrets not kissing her lips when she had the chance.

Yang’s mouth is a valley, holding alabaster teeth and soft ground. Her face is art, her lips hide creation and her lungs carry oxygen pure and unbothered. She is nature Blake hasn’t seen before, air Blake hasn’t breathed before, but  _ wants _ to, so badly she can feel her ribs tear her skin apart as they rise and fall with the lungs she’s deemed inconsequential in the presence of the sun before her.

Her tea can’t distract her this time. Not the flavor, not the smell, not the heat. She knows her face is red, knows her almond skin has taken on a rosy hue that  _ screams _ what she’s thinking like her thoughts are an oration to be performed in the open. And she can’t stop it this time, so she lets it happen. 

She lets her face flush, lets her pupils dilate like she’s looking at beauty itself, because she is. And Yang knows it, too. She must, with the way the corner of her mouth turns up in a smirk so effortless, it makes the hair on the back of Blake’s neck stand up.

Blake wants to kiss her, wants to see whether Yang’s lips will curve or break under the pressure of her own. And she’d swallow her nerves, tuck them behind her throat and neglect them until they disappear and provide her an opportunity to lunge forward and wrap her arms around Yang’s neck and breathe her in, but David walks in from the backroom before it’s too late. 

“Do you girls have any plans for the holidays?” His voice is cheerful, oblivious; he has no idea what he’s just interrupted. 

Yang answers first, like she knows Blake won’t have the words, knows she needs time to collect herself. “I don’t normally go anywhere on Eve. I just chill at home that day, if my manager gives me the day off.”

David rests the pile of books he’s holding on the front counter, brushes the top cover off with his hand. “Did he?”

Yang nods before disappearing behind the shelves again. She goes back to stocking and speaks over the sound of novels hitting each other as she slips them next to one another. “I always take up extra shifts, so he usually does.”

“ _ And _ you help me with my inventory? I should pay you, shouldn’t I?”

Yang chuckles. “No, it’s okay. This is community service, old man.”

David’s laugh is genuine, rings through the room like it always does, and Blake wonders if it lives in his home the way Yang’s laugh lives in hers. “You must be itching to get out of here.”

“Every night,” she confirms. “Then I itch to come back in.”

“What about you?” Blake asks, putting her mug down and resting her arms on the table. It’s a hidden attempt to keep herself steady. “Have anything going on?”

David beams, unstacks his books and lays them side by side. “I’m going to go visit my niece in Connecticut. I haven’t seen her since she was eight. She’s thirteen now.”

“Aw, that’s awesome!” Yang pokes her head out again, keeps her hands busy with her work. “What’s her name?”

David seems delighted at the enthusiasm. “Lulu. She’s adorable.”

“I bet. Going to do anything special?” Blake asks, smiling at the counter.

“I’m not sure. I would like to take her sledding, maybe, but I don’t know if my joints could handle it.”

“Pfft.” Yang finally steps out from behind the stacks, holding an empty cardboard box in one hand. “You carry books around all the time. I’m sure they can put up with it! Invincible grandpa.”

“Be careful, though,” Blake adds after a giggle. “Don’t overwork.”

David waves his hand through the air, observing the prices on his books as he speaks to make sure they’re correct. “I’ll be fine. What about you, Miss Belladonna?”

“Yeah, Belladonna,” Yang says, putting the box on the floor and pulling herself up to sit on the counter. “What’re your plans?”

Blake raises her shoulders and lowers her head, pulls her mug closer to her with both hands and tries to sink into herself. “I don’t really have any.”

“What about your parents?” David asks. 

“They’re going to a signing,” she replies. “For the book they published in… October, I think? Or September. I can’t remember.” She keeps talking when she realizes he probably wants to apologize, doesn’t give him a chance to do it. “I’ll probably go see Weiss tomorrow, though. Hang out for a little bit.”

Yang raises an eyebrow, reaches for Blake’s mug and takes it from between her palms. She takes a sip once she knows she won’t be met with argument. “She’s not busy?”

Blake shifts a little bit, barely enough to be noticeable, but prays it passes off as discomfort from the place in which she sits. “Not this year.”

“Really?”

Blake knows it’s probably really dumb of her to assume Yang can’t see through her fibs. Not only is she terrible at hiding her expressions, but Yang is practically a human lie detector. 

But she lies anyway. “Really.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Nora likes to walk Weiss to the parking lot after work. Not just because she likes the company, but because nights in New York are always wild cards, always smell a little bit like danger. Not that Weiss can’t protect herself; Nora just doesn’t want her to get into a situation where she has to. So she waits in the lobby after her shift ends, sits until Weiss locks her office, and makes the best of their last couple of minutes together by talking her ear off on their way outside.

Most days.

But it’s a little harder to carry aimless, energetic conversation when the air is heavy and tense. Not so tense that it’s suffocating, but tense enough that the atmosphere presses down on Nora’s shoulders and makes her spine hurt from an effort she isn’t even aware she’s making. It does the exact same thing to Weiss.

Neither woman speaks in the lobby. They just give each other that look, that mutual agreement that the dread creeping up their throats is justified. And it’s eerily different from their usual playful bickering. 

Nora only talks once they’re in the hallway, ignores how its silence doesn’t feel entirely reassuring against prying ears, either. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

Weiss nods, lips pursed. “It is.”

“Has Blake reached out to you?”

Her heels click against the floor, filling in the space between her words. “No. And I don’t think she’s reached out to you, either.”

Nora sighs, pulls her bag higher up on her shoulder. “She hasn’t.”

“So she’s going to go drinking again this year,” Weiss concludes, voice made cold by her icy throat and shivering from both the chill  _ and _ her nerves. 

“Yes.”

“And she’s going alone.”

Nora’s heart drops a little deeper, hides underneath her breastbone. “Yes.”

“While Adam walks free.”

“Yes.” The reply barely makes a sound. 

“Fuck,” Weiss says, more to the world than to the person beside her.

“Fuck.”

The phrase isn’t unusual, isn’t surprising. It’s become a placemark of these conversations, an indicator that things are serious and important and  _ need _ to be taken care of, watched closely. An indicator that Weiss is going to lose herself for a few minutes, and that Nora is going to harden. But it’s expected, as of late. As it should be.   


“Maybe she won’t go this year,” Nora offers. It’s not even a false hope, not even exaggerated reassurance; she believes there’s a chance she won’t, because she’s an optimist. That’s her job, and she does it well. So much so it can be a fault.

Weiss watches the floor as they turn the corner, watches the triangular tips of her heels move with her feet. “She will.”

“Maybe — ”

“She  _ will _ , Valkyrie,” she snaps. “There’s no reason why she wouldn’t. This is what she  _ does _ , what she’s done since the year it happened. It’s her process, how she copes with the memories, if not a way to avoid them completely.”

Nora exhales, lets her shoulders drop. “I know.”

“We can’t ask her not to go, because then she’ll demand a reason. Like she fucking…  _ relies _ on that damn bar.” 

Weiss knows it’s not true, knows Blake rarely drinks on any other occasion than the coming night, but she’s… she’s  _ scared. _ And she masks her fear with anger. She always has.

“I don’t blame her,” Nora says, quietly. “If I’d been the object of fury that night, I don’t think I’d ever put the bottle down.”

“I know,” Weiss says, pushes the button for the elevator as she approaches. “Me neither.”

“What are the chances of him finding her?”

“Chances don’t matter. And even if they did, they’d double with each drink. We don’t have room to take chances.” The elevator dings, opens its doors. Weiss’ shoes stop clicking as she steps in, their heel caps digging into wool carpet. “Especially after his sudden appearance at  _ Saphir _ . The chances of _ that _ were one out of a hundred.”

Nora pales at the memory, nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I can… maybe I can cancel on Whitley. Or at least… tell him I’ll be late. I’ll take the Christmas morning flight, so I can go out with Blake to make sure she’s safe and — ”

“You don’t have to,” Nora interrupts. The elevator doors close.

“What?”

“Ren and I don’t have plans. We normally don’t. We’ll go to the bar, make sure she doesn’t get too… out of it. We’ll watch her and make sure she gets home safe.”

Weiss joins her hands in front of her, interlocks her fingers and squeezes so tightly, her knuckles turn white. “Are you sure?” 

Nora nods again. “It’ll give us something to do, and we’ll both be fine protecting her if something happens.”

Weiss holds a gasp in her throat as the elevator jolts, begins lowering itself slowly. She looks at the woman next to her, searches her bright eyes for the reassurance they always hold, and breathes out when she finds it. “Okay,” she says finally. 

“I’ll text you updates.”

Weiss bites her tongue for only a moment, holds back her urge to say ‘ _ please _ ’, and says “Yes. Do that.” instead.

The rest of the elevator ride is silent, and so is the walk to Weiss’ car. But Nora wraps her arms around her once they approach the Fiat, and it says more than words. 

Weiss doesn’t like hugs, she never has. Not openly. She’ll let her friends give them to her every now and again, for their own benefit rather than hers, because sometimes she feels a little less uptight than usual, but she never asks. 

They help sometimes, though. Especially Nora’s, because they’re strong and hopeful, and they hold Weiss in place when she feels like she’s falling off of the Earth itself.

They give her enough of a wake-up call to become herself again, too. 

“Goodnight,” she says once they separate, her voice flat one again.

Nora looks at her, sees her shoulders squared and her back straight, and smiles. It’s always nice to have Weiss Schnee back. It gives  _ her _ the reassurance  _ she _ needs. Because Weiss only ever loses her poise when things are going wrong. 

And if her elegance is there? Things are fine.

Weiss feels the exact same way.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mention of abuse and also just. drunkness lmao
> 
> also i wrote most of this while listening to indigo - kississippi so (((: do with that what you will, i suggest listening

Christmas Eve is normally one of Yang’s catch up days. Ruby goes to a friend’s house for the night, and her boss gives her the day off work, leaving her schedule clear and free of the usual obligations and distractions. 

Instead of taking that time to, say, rest or relax a little bit, she uses it to clean. No one can really blame her; more often than not, you can barely see her floor at this time of the year. She gets so caught up taking care of things at the shop and running errands, the clothes on her carpet don’t really matter as much, so she leaves them be until she has time. 

She’s not upset that she has to clean on her day off. As wonderful as sleep is, and as much as she needs it, she’d prefer to keep herself busy and her attention occupied. If she’s not doing something, she gets antsy, and that goes for laying in bed, too. Tidying up also gives her an excuse to listen to music or catch up on movie series she hasn’t finished yet, and she definitely appreciates that.

Her audio of choice tonight is AC/DC’s third album,  _ Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap _ . It’s one of her favorites, and she doesn’t think it gets as much recognition as it should, but she’s not one to complain. She’ll just bounce her head to it as she folds her sweaters and rolls her socks. Or crumples them up and hopes they hold their shape.

This year’s mess isn’t very terrible at all, and she takes pride in that. It only takes a few hours for her to clear her floor, and even less time for her to put her clothes and laundry away. She doesn’t have a  _ huge _ wardrobe, but folding things and organizing them in drawers and hanging them up in her closet tends to be a long, uninteresting process. It’s her least favorite part, but it keeps her hands busy. 

She likes cleaning her bathroom. It never gets particularly dirty, because it’s rather small and easy to care for, but she likes the way Clorox smells, and she likes how bright everything is once it’s wiped down. Ruby teases her about it, says it’s weird that she has a favorite room to clean, but Yang always brushes it off with an arm around her sister’s neck and a gentle fist messing up her hair.  _ That _ tends to end in wrestling matches, but it gets the point across.

Yang likes to clean to the beat of what she’s listening to, too. That’s what she’s doing now; grinning to herself as she scrubs her shower tiles to  _ Love at First Feel.  _ She’s putting her entire body behind it, swaying with her arm while she wipes the wall, and she’s having a great time. 

This is another reason why she likes music. It turns boring moments into moments like  _ these _ , where she beams unapologetically and her heartbeat matches the sound of the drums and everything within her just seems to move rhythmically. 

She’s enjoying it so much, she almost misses the knock at the door. 

The tapping is sudden and loud, and it blends into the music so well, Yang has to think twice about whether or not it’d just been a part of the song she’d never noticed. When it sounds again, however, she realizes it’s not a part of the song at all.

She rests her sponge on the edge of the bathroom sink, pauses the song, and dries her hands on her shirt as she walks toward the front door. It’s unusual for her to get visitors on Christmas Eve, let alone this late at night, and she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a bit worrying. Whether it’s a complete stranger or someone Yang knows well, the reason for them showing up so suddenly can’t be very good, and it makes her throat tighten. 

They knock again as she puts her hand on the doorknob, and the sound is loose and lazy and unsure. She doesn’t recognize it, can’t place the sound to a hand or a face, so she just decides to pull the door open and hope for the best. 

And she really, really doesn’t expect to see what she sees. But she’s not entirely surprised. 

“Blake?”

The woman is soaked head to toe, water from her hair dripping onto the hallway’s floor like it’d gotten tired of clinging to the strands. Her clothes sit slick against her skin, scared that the weight of the water in them will pull them away from her frame, and she shivers wildly underneath the fabric. Her lower lip is busted; it’s not bleeding terribly, but it seems like she wouldn’t have noticed the injury anyway. One of her arms reaches across her torso, holding her elbow, squeezing it lightly. She looks quiet, slack and smaller than normal. Like she’s curling over her own bones. Her response comes out as uneven as her knocks. “Hi.”

Yang looks her over, takes in every heart wrenching inch. “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?” Blake lifts a hand more frail than usual, brings it to where Yang’s gaze rests and feels the cut on her mouth. She pulls her red tinged fingertips away, looks at them in pure surprise that doesn’t really sit well on her face. “Oh. Yeah. I am.” The words blur together, fall into one another. “Whoops.”

Yang’s shoulders lower slowly as she inches away from frozen shock. Her voice is low and gentle as she speaks, as if she’s scared Blake will run like a nervous stray. “You’re soaked.”

“Well, it  _ is _ raining.” Blake tries to gesture to the stairs, to the door at the bottom of them leading outside, but the movement is unsteady and laced with confusion.

“What are you doing here?” Yang asks.

Blake leans forward, rests her shoulder against the door frame and lets it carry her weight, because she knows she can barely carry it herself. “I don’t know. Just happened.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Barely.”

Yang could laugh at how much of an understatement that is, but she doesn’t. She just watches the woman she loves fold over herself against the door and wonders what the hell happened. “I didn’t know you drink.”

“I don’t, usually.” 

“Tonight’s different?”

Blake sighs. “Yeah.”

“If I let you in, you need to tell me how you got here.” The words are disguised as curiosity, as interest, but all Yang’s really focused on is making sure she didn’t get herself into a bad situation on the way there.

“Cab.”

Yang reaches forward, wraps an arm around the noirette’s waist and guides her into the apartment. This time, the only mess there is Blake. 

“Clean,” she says, seemingly shocked.

“Yeah. I had freetime.”

“Smells good.”

Yang smiles a little and guides Blake to the small, round table in her insultingly tiny kitchen. “I’m glad you think so.” She sits her down in a chair, leans against the table to watch her for a moment to make sure she can support her own spine. “You came in a cab?”

Blake nods lazily, wraps her arms around herself. “From that one bar. I don’t… I don’t know what it’s called. But it’s good. Pretty sure.”

“Were you alone?”

“Nuh-uh.”

Yang crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Was Weiss there?”

“Nooo.” Blake shakes her head so wildly, it probably should’ve fallen off. “Nora. And Ren.”

“Ren?” 

“Nora’s. He’s quiet.”

Yang laughs. “Thanks for letting me know. Do they know you’re here?”

“No.” Blake pauses. “Yeah. Probably. They were watching me like fuckin’...  _ hawks _ .” 

“I don’t blame them.” Lilac eyes brush over a face dripping wet, fall back onto the aforementioned wound. “That cab driver didn’t do that, right?”

“What?”

“Your lip. They didn’t hit you or anything?” Angry heat rises to her cheeks as she speaks and considers the possibility. Drunk women are easy targets. 

It eases when Blake shakes her head. “No. He was nice. He played music. I just bumped into the cab’s door.”

“Typical.”

Blake pouts, tightens her own embrace against the water touching her skin. “Rude.”

“Yeah.” Yang pushes off the table. “You need to get changed.”

“I do not.”

“You’re going to get sick.”

“I’ll be  _ fine _ . I don’t get sick.” A proud smile covers Blake’s lips, adds to the ridiculous boast. 

“Blake, you’re shivering.”

“I am?” She looks down at herself, sees the goosebumps on her skin and the way her bones chatter like teeth. “Oh. Huh. I don’t feel cold.”

“That’s alcohol for you,” Yang replies, stepping backward toward her closet and watching the other closely on the way. 

“It could just be you.”

Yang smiles to herself as she turns to the hanging clothes, sorts through them for the warmest thing she has. “Don’t be a flirt right now.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll distract me, and then you’ll catch a cold.”

“That’s okay. You’ll take care of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t leave you on Weiss’ doorstep instead.”

Blake furrows her eyebrows and huffs as Yang pulls a sweater off of a hanger, speaks as she walks to the drawers across the room and kneels down. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“No?”

“No. You love me.”

Yang freezes for only a second before continuing to look through the bottom drawer. She pulls out a pair of shorts and stands back up. “I’d do it anyway.”

Blake doesn’t really answer, just kind of makes a noise deep within her throat. It sounds like rocks falling, like waves crashing against stone. It’s the steadiest noise she’s made since stepping up to Yang’s door, and it doesn’t make the blonde’s heart ache  _ nearly _ as much. 

Yang watches the drunken woman before her as she walks back to the table, takes in how pitiful she looks curled up in the chair like a sweater, balled up and forgotten. It makes her throat hurt. She forgets clothes a lot, but she’d never forget about Blake.

“Can you change yourself?”

“Oh, totally.” It sounds like ‘n _ o’.  _

Yang lets her try anyway, reaches out a hand to help her stand and sucks in a breath at the spark she feels when they touch skin.

Blake’s reply ends up being a lie. The very second she stands, she tilts forward into Yang, presses wet fabric against dry cloth and giggles to herself like she knows it shouldn’t be funny. 

Yang lets her stay there for a moment, lets her dry her face on Yang’s shoulder like it does a better job than any towel ever could. She doesn’t know if Blake’s lip hurts at the pressure, but if it does, it doesn’t show. 

She doesn’t even acknowledge the blood on her shirt when Blake pulls away.

“Arms up,” she says, grabbing the hem of Blake’s shirt.

Blake obeys, lifting her arms straight up as if it’s the instruction she’s been waiting for her entire life. Yang fights the urge to praise her, knows it’s a little harder not to because of how much more gentle the woman seems under the influence of alcohol. Yang wants to tell her she’s doing well, wants to admire her fully, show how important she is. But she keeps her mouth closed as she pulls Blake’s shirt over her head.

Blake pulls her brassiere over her arms, drops it to the floor so it falls into a damp pile at her feet, right where her shirt sits. She gives Yang this effortless smile, a smile that matches the way her skin shines with moisture and ethereality and everything Yang has ever deemed intoxicating. 

Yang runs her gaze over Blake’s shoulders, the curves of her bones and her chest and her ribs. She takes in the way Blake’s stomach moves with her breath, the way her arms bend along with definition she’s never noticed and the way a small, dark scar sits on the tan skin of her forearm. And she’s breathless.

Blake undoubtedly notices, lets herself lean forward again and press into Yang’s body as if it’s an interest, more than a support system. And it might just be the alcohol, but she swears she sees Yang’s irises flood with red for just a second, and the color sends her stomach rolling.

That’s as far as it goes. Blake draped over Yang, holding onto her like she’s the only raft in the middle of an ocean, and Yang’s eyes trained on pure, drunken gold, ignoring black pupils like they’ve never mattered. Yang’s body aches for it to go further. But she knows it shouldn’t. She knows Blake’s openness is a byproduct of liquor, not willful lust. And she knows Blake would regret it. So she keeps her lips where they are, forces her eyes away from an open chest, and pulls Blake back up to stand on her own.

They don’t talk to each other, not for a little bit. Blake just watches Yang’s face as she undresses her the rest of the way, watches her stick her tongue out the way she always does when she’s focused. She steps clumsily out of her jeans, trips when the cuff gets stuck around her heel and lets Yang grab her upper arms to steady her. She never mentions the fire growing in her gut, never mentions the way its flames lick at her ribs and her lungs and her heart. Never mentions the relieving lack of pressure sitting behind Yang’s gaze.

She wants to say thank you as Yang pulls a sweater over her head. For the clothes. For the embrace. For the kind words. For the dates. For everything. But she doesn’t.

“You don’t need to take care of me, you know,” she says. 

Yang only crooks an eyebrow, gives no more hint in her expression as she pulls Blake’s wrists through warm sleeves. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” There are a few moments of silence. “I can take care of myself.”

Yang takes her eyes away from the other woman’s arms, brings them to her face and locks their gazes together. It’s not intimidating, and it’s not hard. It’s genuine, it’s point proving, it’s real. As real as her response. “Then why did you come to my door?”

Blake holds the look, holds it until she can’t take the weight of the undeniable truth that she  _ does _ need Yang, she  _ does _ need to be taken care of sometimes. And she hates that it feels so good to come to terms with, but she doesn’t say so. She just lets the question linger. 

And to Yang, it’s almost painful. Because she knows the reason. But she wants to hear it.

She makes sure to keep her hands light as she helps Blake step into dry shorts. She guides her ankle with three fingers and pulls the waistband toward her hips with a gentle grip. She ties them carefully, loops the string around her fingers like she’s been doing it her whole life, and Blake thinks it’s such a dumb thing to find attractive, but does it anyway. Like she always does.

Yang has a small mirror, hanging right on the back of her front door. It has a small crack in it, in the bottom right corner, but it doesn’t bother anyone. So when Blake looks in it, sees the way Yang’s clothes rest over her frame, she smiles a little. 

“Your clothes are nice,” she says. Her nose is stuffy, and she instinctively rubs her wrist against it. 

Yang smiles, looking up at Blake’s reflection as she picks wet clothes up off of the floor. “You think so?”

It’s so different from her usual confidence, her usual cocky responses, that it makes Blake’s cheeks flush pink. “Yeah.” She doesn’t want silence to take the room over again, doesn’t want to go another second without hearing Yang’s voice, so she continues. “I would know. I see them all the time.”

“You’re right.” Yang tosses Blake’s wet clothes across the room, watches them land in the cloth hamper hanging on her bathroom door. She doesn’t acknowledge the accuracy, only acknowledges Blake. “Thank you.”

“They look better on me, though.” The words aren’t their usual faux snark. They’re words that beg for a response. 

“Yeah,” Yang says. “They do.”

Blake turns away from the mirror and ignores the way she tilts to the side, using her hand to steady herself against the wall. Her gaze travels around the room, dusts over every object she can see before landing on the bed, big and made. “I’m tired,” she states.

Yang raises an eyebrow again, purely amused. “You can’t lay down yet.”

“Why?”

“I need to clean your lip. It’s still bleeding a little.”

Blake waves her hand in the air. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Yang replies, shaking her head. “It’s not.”

“Why?” Neither of them acknowledge the almost infantile dependency on the question. 

“Well,” Yang says, reaching out for Blake’s hand and leading her toward the bathroom, “blood doesn’t taste very good. And it might get infected.”

“Mouth wounds clean themselves, you know.”

“It’s the internal ones that do that, lovely.”

Blake waves the correction off. “I don’t mind the taste. Pennies don’t taste so bad, anyway.”

Yang snorts. “I’ll make you tea if you hush and let me clean you up.”

“Fine.” She says it less because of her liking for tea, and more because of the glimpse of her lip she’d gotten in the mirror. 

Yang was right. It definitely should get cleaned. Even drunk Blake knows that; she sits on the bathroom counter and lets the blonde work.

It is so, so incredibly hard, however, to clean the lip wound of a patient who will  _ not stop talking _ . 

“I’ve always been clumsy,” Blake says, wincing a little against the damp paper towel Yang dabs on her mouth. She tries to lean away from the pain, anchors herself with a palm on the wall.

By now, Yang’s figured out she’s not going to be able to get Blake to hush, and has resorted to conversing while she works. “I know. I learned that on our first date.” 

Yang doesn’t notice the way Blake’s pupils dilate, too focused on wiping clotted blood off of swollen, delicate skin. “Date?”

Yang wonders if maybe their meeting  _ hadn’t _ been a date when she hears the question's tone, but only hopes that’s not what was meant. “Yeah.”

“You remember it?”

She exhales in relief, lets the breath transition into a chuckle smoother than any pick-up line she’s ever uttered. “Blake, it was only, like, a month ago.”

“Oh.” Blake watches Yang shake her head with a smile, feels cold water against her lip and squints briefly against the sting. “How’d you learn?”

“Hm?”

“That I’m clumsy.” 

“You tripped over your own feet, remember? Before we got into the café.” If Yang notices the way Blake’s cheeks change color, she doesn’t make it known. “You spilled your drink on your lap, too. For absolutely no reason.”

Blake frowns a little and looks at the towel as Yang pulls it back, sees the red stains and struggles to look away from the way blood paints the small, individual threads. “Anyone could do that.”

Yang rests the towel on the sink and flashes a soft smile. “You’re not ‘anyone’.” 

She can physically see Blake’s breath catch in her throat. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

They watch each other for a few moments, searching eyes for intent and definition. Blake pulls the ends of her sleeves around her hands, tries to hide in the clothes she wears, but they’re Yang’s anyway, and it almost makes her feel more exposed. Not that she minds, of course. But she feels like she should.

Yang looks away first, after her lips fall from their curve back into their resting line. She straightens out, steps away from the body she’d been towering over moments before and picks the paper towel back up. She drops it into the trash can beside the toilet, turns to open the mirror and observe its shelves, and goes through various tubes of medicinal serums. 

She’s so focused, she seems to jump slightly when Blake says, “It’s because I trust you.”

Yang turns away from the mirror, faces the voice and locks tender eyes. “What?”

“I came because I trust you.” Blake’s words are a bit more sure this time. Steady.

Yang’s heart swells, rolls, ties into painless knots and works itself out of them. It feels like her blood is an ocean, crashing through her veins, breaking them, pouring into her muscles and her flesh and through her pores, bleeding her out in the best way possible. She doesn’t know if her response sounds as nonchalant as they usually do, doesn’t know if she hides her relief well, but she tries. “That’s good.”

Blake doesn’t really smile, but she breathes her grin into the air, and it sits there like it belongs. It makes her straight expression seem less like a thing to face, and more like a thing to listen to. “I don’t trust a lot of people.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She takes a minute to answer, thinks over her options and observes the way her damp, raven hair curls in the corner of her eye. “It’s dangerous,” she says finally. She doesn’t know if she’s willing to elaborate.

Yang nods lightly, turns back to the mirror and resumes reading labels. “I know.”

“You’re not, though.” The words are easier to say to Yang’s back.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Her words bleed genuine. “I’d never want to hurt you.”

The phrase sits in the air, right next to Blake’s smile, and it’s comfortable. Even in the next long stretch of silence, the air is warm and gentle and vibrating in a way that feels less like electricity and more like a hug. A kiss. Two pinkies interlocked. And it’s promising.

They don’t really talk again, not for a while. Yang helps Blake off of the counter with two hands holding her waist, cups the side of her face as she spreads Neosporin over the clean cut. Blake looks into her eyes and revels in the way a gentle thumb feels brushing over her cheek. She’d kill to feel it again.

She does, thankfully, when Yang helps her rest comfortably in the bed she had eyed earlier that night. The blankets seem to swallow her whole, cradle her in warmth and a scent she’s taken in nearly every day for a month, but won’t ever tire of. 

Yang smiles down at her, cups her face again and seems to  _ exist _ for the way Blake’s cheek feels in her palm. It’s an awkward position to hold, it really is, but they try to stay in it for as long as possible, try to stay connected to one another like they’re wires that’ll go dead if they don’t. 

Even when they separate, when Yang sits down at the edge of the bed with her legs criss-crossed, they touch. Yang runs her fingers over Blake’s leg, and it’s over the blanket, but it’s enough. It’s enough for now. 

It’s not sexual. It’s not suggestive. It’s honest, it’s loving, and it’s perfect.

Yang watches the woman laying down before her, runs her gaze over every part of her she can see, and holds back a smile, because she truly doesn’t understand how someone so carefully made up and constructed ended up underneath her hand.

She’s sure her eyes are probably sparkling, she’s sure her pupils are probably huge and she’s sure she’s blushing so hard she can’t even feel it, but Blake never mentions a thing. She just watches back, observes her expression, memorizes the pressure of Yang’s fingertips over the blanket. 

It’s moments like these that really solidify things for them. When they don’t need to talk, don’t need to tease each other. They can just sit there and breathe the same air, exist in the same space and watch each other with the utmost admiration. They don’t need to speak their thoughts, because there aren’t any. There’s just wonderment, existence, and the need to  _ be _ . 

Yang’s expression moves through the air in waves, crashes against Blake’s face and flows through her lips, down her throat. It weaves itself between her ribs, into her lungs and her stomach and pumps through her veins with the blood from her heart. And it feels like love. Like happiness. Like  _ home. _

Blake’s words from earlier echo against Yang’s skull, taking up every small space and reverberating down her brainstem, along her spinal cord and down each and every ridge like a fingertip tracing her back, and it makes her want to shiver.  _ It’s because I trust you. _

She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget tonight.

“You’re so much better than him, you know?” 

The words are quiet, small. So much so, Yang almost misses them. But she doesn’t. She hears them, and she tilts her head. “Better than who?”

“My ex.”

Yang doesn’t know exactly who she’s talking about, doesn’t know what he was like, but she knows he must’ve been rough. She can tell by the way Blake seems to have tucked herself into her own chest, the way she seems to hold Yang’s pale duvet close to her face as if breathing in it’s scent is the only thing keeping her grounded. She doesn’t know if she should press, doesn’t know if Blake’s sober enough to make the conscious decision to let her, so she only says, “I’m glad.”

“Me too.” 

Yang hears the way Blake’s voice squeaks, the way it rides her exhale on its way out, and decides to risk it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.” The room goes deadly quiet. “I’m scared to.”

“Why?”

Blake brings her eyes to her own hands, stares at the way her fingers clench around the blanket they hold. “I don’t want you to run away. You probably should, but I don’t… I don’t want you to.”

The confession makes Yang’s blood freeze in place, weighs her body down for just a second. “I won’t.” She says it, and she means it with every bone in her body. Her lungs breathe for the woman in front of her, they work best when she’s around. And that means so much more than anything else ever has.

“You might,” Blake says. 

“There are always chances of shit like that,” Yang replies, beginning to run her fingers over the blanket again when she realizes she’d stopped a few moments before. “But you have to trust me on this.”

“I do.” Blake goes quiet for a few minutes, letting silence linger as she thinks. “I don’t know how to start.”

“I won’t rush you.”

Yang doesn’t expect her to speak as quickly as she does, nearly laughs at how much it contradicts her previous statement. She doesn’t when she hears them. It’s like the words have been on the tip of her tongue forever, and they probably have. “He was angry a lot.” Yang’s shoulders drop as she listens. “Like, all the time. For no good reason. Nothing was ever really… good enough. So he’d get mad, you know?” Yang nods, watches the other woman speak with soft eyes. “It became a lot to deal with. It really stressed me out.”

Yang exhales when she stops speaking, and moves before she can start again. She crawls up to the top of the bed and rests her back against the bed frame, pulling Blake toward her carefully. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything. Just proves her presence, proves that she’s listening and that she’s not going to stop until what needs to be said is said.

“I started doing worse at work,” Blake continues, leaning into Yang and curling up slightly. “I couldn’t really focus, but I was scared of not finishing things, so I’d force myself. Issue quality went down… a lot.” She reaches a hand out and finds Yang’s hand, holds her open palm and begins tracing small shapes onto it with her fingertip as she talks. “I didn’t really leave my apartment for anything but my shifts.”

“He wouldn’t let you?”

“Not really. At first, it was my own dwindling motivation. And then… I guess he realized my friends were a threat to him and what he was doing. So he didn’t really let me go anywhere.”

Yang’s face falls. “Baby..”

Blake’s heart would usually skip at something like that. It doesn’t this time. So she nestles a little closer to Yang’s chest and tries to hide in her warmth. “He couldn’t really get rid of them, though. Weiss and Nora, I mean.”

“Oh?”

Blake’s nod is minimal. “We’ve known each other since high school. We’ve been  _ close _ since high school. It was harder for him to cut those ties for me. Especially since I worked with them almost every day.” Yang watches Blake’s finger move, tries to make sense of the imaginary things she draws. “I didn’t really talk to them about it, but they knew what was going on. I don’t really know how. I thought I hid it pretty well. But I guess not.”

“I think it’s easier to see when you’re close to a person,” Yang suggests.

Blake nods. “Maybe. They ended up telling our boss about what was going on. Coco, the one Weiss mentioned at the diner.”

“I didn’t get the best impression of her with Weiss’ complaint.”

Blake smiles a little. “Yeah. She tends to complain about her a lot.” It fades. “Coco understood, though. It’s why they didn’t let me go. She knew it was a safe haven for me, so she just lowered my workload. Had Nora take over for a while.”

“Doubt things went any better with her in charge of editing, hm?”

“She wasn’t terrible with it, actually. Just slow. And bad with grammar.”

“I believe it.”

Things are quiet again for a few minutes. Blake abandons Yang’s palm, lets it fall and wraps her arms around Yang’s torso instead. “Weiss was the first person to find out it wasn’t just verbal.”

A rock falls from somewhere, anywhere, and lands straight on Yang’s stomach. It pushes lurking anger up with it, but not enough to make her voice tremble. “He hurt you?”

“Yeah.”

She shuts her eyes, looks down at the woman she holds when they open and breathes out deeply. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”  _ It’s not.  _ “It really upset Weiss, though.”  _ Good _ . “She tried to convince me to leave him after she saw the bruises. It took a while. I ignored her for a week because I was stupid.”

“I wouldn’t say  _ stupid _ ,” Yang says. “You just… didn’t understand.”

“Stupid,” Blake replies.

Yang smiles a little, thankful for how easy the response had sounded. “Stupid works, too.”

“I _ know _ I didn’t realize,” Blake says. “He had me caught, you know? I thought everyone was overreacting, I suppose. I knew it was bad, but I thought it would stop. That it wasn’t worth the upset. I didn’t really realize how serious it was until Weiss told me about something that happened with her dad. Compared the two situations.” Yang doesn’t need any further explanation, and she knows it’s not her place to ask for any, either. “I got it then, though. Started trying to leave. It took me three tries. But I did it.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Blake’s head clears, clouds pull back at the phrase, but she doesn’t verbally acknowledge it. She hopes the pressure of her grip is enough to show her gratefulness, because her words don’t. “He tried to hurt her.”

Another rock falls, lands on Yang’s throat. It pushes anger again, freezing cold instead of burning hot. “Weiss?”

“Yeah. And Nora. And me. And everyone he saw in the offices when he came in that day.”

“He went to your job?”

“Yeah. He knew where everything was. My apartment, my job, everyone else’s houses. I’m thankful he came for us all at once.”

Yang’s heart stops beating, aches from the sudden lack of use. No one should have to think that way, to be grateful for something like that, and it makes her hurt for Blake in a way she hadn’t imagined she would the first day they’d met.

“He was mad at me,” Blake continues, “so he tried to hurt the people closest to me. And because I only went to the office, the people closest to me were my coworkers. I tried to stop him. It worked. I told him I’d go back to him, but it wasn’t true. He figured  _ that _ out a few minutes afterward, and… yeah.”

Yang doesn’t really know what to say. There’s so little people can really say in situations like this that really… get their sympathy across. But, at the same time, Yang really doesn’t think Blake wants it anyway. So she wraps a leg around Blake’s and strengthens the foundation they sit on, the foundation that’ll build a home of reassurance and  _ staying _ .

“That’s why I drink tonight, anyway,” Blake says. The words are dismissive, like they’re said only to close a conversation off, and that’s why Yang goes with it. “It’s the anniversary of the incident. Landed most of us in the hospital for a night.”

“I’d probably go out drinking, too.” Yang breathes out, tucks her head closer to Blake’s. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she replies. “It’s fine now, you know? He’s in prison.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Weiss and her sister gathered evidence for a case. Charges were… lazy on the court’s part, and he’s rich or whatever, but he got three years anyway. He’s getting out next December.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. It is.” Blake relaxes finally, unaware she was so tense during her retelling. It feels like a dam’s broken, and her shoulders are the water. “Like I said, you’re so much better than him.”

“I’m glad,” Yang replies. “I always will be.”

They lay against each other for the next few minutes, looking up at the ceiling. Yang makes constellations out of the cracks, and Blake listens to her breathing, lets it anchor her to the Earth like she’ll float away the moment it stops.

“I worry about him hurting you sometimes,” she says. It’s unprompted, but not sudden. The words flow into the atmosphere, enter Yang’s ears like a quiet possibility. 

“Oh?”

Blake nods. “He’s vengeful. It’s what he does.”

“What, hurt pretty blonde women named ‘Yang’?”

The humor goes appreciated, acknowledged with a light kick. “No. I just don’t want him to go after the person I love next. He said —” She sighs. “He said he would.”

“I’ll be okay,” Yang says, and no three words have ever been tucked further into reassurance. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I always do.”

She chews the inside of her lip, looks down at where Blake’s hair pulls back, and considers. She thinks, goes over every reaction to make sure her decision isn’t the wrong one to make. And then, she lowers her head a little, and presses her lips to Blake’s temple. “Worry less,” she says afterward.

Blake melts. Genuinely, seriously melts. At the breath against her skin, at how soft Yang’s lips are, at the way love seemed to transfer from Yang’s soul straight into Blake’s body through a single gesture. “Yang.” The word is hushed, but desperate.

“Yeah?”

Words pour from her mouth quicker than she can filter them. “You make me feel different.”

Yang smiles, raises a hand to Blake’s hair and runs her fingers through it, gently. “You make  _ me _ feel different.”

The admittance only makes Blake’s need to say her own stronger. “I feel good around you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I normally read to get out of here. Life, I mean.” Syllables blur together, and it’s not because of intoxication, it’s because of eagerness. “But I don’t need to do that as much anymore. I still do it, but you… you work so much better. You give me that escape I’ve needed since Adam, since what happened.”

“Good. I always hope to.”

Blake’s face seems to fall with her words, and it’s almost comedic. “You’re so nice to me.”

“Well, I would hope so.”

“You’re so nice, and I’m so mean.”

Yang throws her head back and laughs, ignores how it bumps the bed frame because she barely even feels it. “You’re not mean.”

“I always make fun of you.”

Yang scratches Blake’s head lightly, smiles at the way she involuntarily tilts it back at the sensation. “Yeah,” she says, “but you love me while you do it.”

Blake shuts her eyes, sighs quietly as Yang continues. “Yeah… I do.” 

“That’s why it feels good.”

“I like when you make fun of me too,” Blake mumbles. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re sweet about it.”

“I’ll keep doing it, then.”

“It’ll make me blush.”

_ Trust me _ , Yang thinks.  _ I know. _

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake ends up sleeping at Yang’s that night, for numerous reasons; it’s still storming, hangovers are a bitch to take care of on your own, it’s nearly two in the morning, and neither woman really wants to let go of one another. So they lay there, tangled together, brushing hands through each other’s hair and down each other’s backs. 

They both tend to prefer background noise to fall asleep, but they don’t really need it this time. The sound of rain beating windows and lungs breathing air is enough for them. And everything is peaceful.

Yang thinks the night over, relishes in every romantic moment they’d shared, every time she couldn’t find her breath. She goes over their conversations, the way she’s  _ sure _ Blake’s skin softened her rough hands, the way Blake had leaned into her and opened up like she isn’t scared anymore, because she’s not. 

And then Yang remembers something. Remembers something Blake had said. 

_ “You give me that escape I’ve needed since Adam.” _

She knows it’s probably a coincidence. She knows she’s probably overthinking, that it’s not logical and that there are  _ so _ many Adams in New York. But she asks anyway.

“Blake? Are you up?”

“Hm?” The sound is grainy, tired, like it wasn't quite ready to come out. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to ask, but what… what’s Adam’s last name?”

Blake brings herself closer to Yang’s body, buries her face into Yang’s shirt and breathes in the way it smells. She lets it ground her, lets it hold her from the inside out, and says, “Taurus.”

All Yang sees is red.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late i had writers block . on another note i wrote the majority of this chapter in the cabinet underneath my sink

Hearing tends to be the first thing that kicks in after Blake wakes up. Oddly enough, it’s usually the most helpful when it comes to putting details together and figuring out where she’s awoken. Which is her bed, normally, but not this morning. Because she doesn’t usually hear teeth being brushed at the apartment she lives in alone.

So she lays still for a few moments, holds her eyes shut and keeps listening. She hears a running tap, focuses on that for a few moments before moving on. Then she hears something brewing, recognizes the soft hum of a coffee maker. Gentle music plays in the background, undoubtedly some _Cigarettes After Sex_ song she’d probably recognize if she weren’t so groggy. It’s quiet, and she’d probably miss it if she wasn’t relying so much on sound. 

Something taps against porcelain— probably a toothbrush— and water stops running. Someone sniffs, most likely into a towel because of how muffled it sounds. Light footsteps cross the room, sound a little louder once they step off of carpet and onto harder flooring. Something opens, a cabinet door, probably, and just as ceramic clinks, she begins to remember. 

It comes in a rush. Leather stools, a bar smelling stale. Small, cold glasses and burning alcohol, followed by anxiety and pressure and the need to _get out._ Freezing rain, afterward. Bumping into people, cursing drunk men, a lazily hailed taxi. A hand, unfamiliar yet attached to Blake’s arm, pulling a car door open, and a dull ache in her bottom lip. The smell of cigars, a slurred address. A man’s concerned voice and loud music. Unsteady feet climbing stairs much steeper than what she’d remembered, and knocking coming from a fist she hadn’t even recognized at the time. Then, wide, lilac eyes and tender hands, fingertips brushing her skin. A gaze that felt like home.

Everything after that is spotty. Like her intoxicated self had been too tired to compartmentalize memories she’d need in the morning. And she’d try to think harder, she really would, if her head wasn’t fucking killing her.

Everything around her almost makes the pain easy to ignore. The way whatever blanket she’s wrapped in holds her snug like some personal shelter, built to keep her safe from storms and the cold and demons determined to find a way in. The way every breath she takes through her nose is familiar, flows through her like it never wants to leave her lungs. The way she _knows_ if she lays still just a little longer, the moment won’t end, and things can stay the way they are; with her wrapped in Yang’s things, more herself than she’s ever been anywhere else, and Yang existing how she normally does just across the room, flawless even down to the way it sounds.

But the truth is, it feels like thorns have buried themselves into Blake’s eyes, her temples, her skull. It feels like they’re pushing deeper by the second, growing barbs that twist around her veins and her nerves and her brain. She’s surprised blood hasn’t pooled at the center of her spine, dripping down its ridges and bends from the wounds every spicule causes. And it’s really, really bothering her.

She shifts, prays the movement will relieve some of the pressure on her head. She groans quietly when the new position makes it worse, makes her head throb so hard, she sees pulsing lights behind her eyelids. It catches Yang’s attention.

“Morning,” she says, like she’s been waiting for the moment she’d be able to open her mouth. “Take it easy for a second.”

Blake does as directed without reluctance, buries her face deeper into the pillow beside her and inhales deeply, wills the scent to knock the pain away like some analgesic that only belongs to her. And maybe Yang.

The cabinet opens again, followed by more ceramic, something pouring. The scent of coffee rests in the air, strong and harsh, and she almost whines at how much it masks the smell she’d rather focus on. 

“You slept like a rock,” Yang says. “Almost got worried you wouldn’t wake up.”

Blake opens her mouth to talk, only to find the walls of her throat dry and nearly stuck together. She swallows a few times before speaking again, unsettled by how similar the words sound to grains of sand. “What time is it?”

There’s a pause, and then, “Quarter to nine.” 

Earlier than expected. 

Blake breathes in and anchors her palms on the mattress beside her. She sits up slowly, tries to keep her head still, as if the slightest turn will send it spiraling in pain. Her stomach lurches just a little, and she pulls her eyes open when she’s sure she won’t puke. 

The smile Yang offers from across the room is enough for Blake to be sure every choice she’s ever made up until this moment has been the right one.

She looks down at herself, at the pale duvet resting over her frame. It makes her seem so much tinier than she is, but she’s not upset by it. It’s nice to feel small, nice to know that out of all the little things in this apartment, Yang still chooses to look at her. 

She grabs the end of the blanket, pulls it off of her and looks over her legs for injury. She tugs her sleeves up, looks over her arms and sighs lightly when she sees she’s unharmed. How she managed to stay unbruised after running into so many people, she has no clue, but she’s not really complaining. 

As her gaze moves across her body, she notices her clothes. The fact that they fall a bit more loose over her figure than usual, the fact that they’re dry after quite some time of standing in the rain drunk, and the fact that they’re not… hers.

And then she remembers hands on her waist, the way lightly calloused fingers had felt against her own skin, soft and damp. She remembers warmth, the way it jumped above her stomach and climbed her rib cage with vigor. She remembers a set of peering eyes, irises reddened with purpose. She remembers two bodies, close and honest. And she remembers feeling fine. 

But she can’t remember anything after that.

She looks up and searches, runs her gaze past everything that might move, and finds Yang leaning back against the counter across the room. She’s watching Blake carefully, like she’s scared the woman will crumble if she moves too fast.

“Yang?” The call is light and casual.

“Hm?”

The words aren’t as light and casual. “Did we…?”

The question lingers in the air for a few moments, like the words are some script that needs to be decoded, and Blake’s considering just blurting the whole thing out when Yang finally shakes her head, and says, “No, we didn’t. Nothing more than looking.”

Blake notices how factual Yang’s response sounds, like she’d gone over the line a thousand times in her head so it’d sound like plain, nonchalant routine. She also notices the way Yang looks away after replying, brings her eyes to the mug in her hand and watches it, and can’t help but feel like she wouldn’t be upset if the answer was ‘yes, we did.’

“Okay.” Blake’s tone lacks the relief it should probably have, holds quiet casuality instead. “What happened, then?”

“You don’t remember?”

She brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them, squinting against her headache as she talks. “No. Not all of it, at least. Everything up to when I got here, I guess?” 

It’s like her drunken head had stopped taking note of things, because she didn’t need to be weary anymore. Because she didn’t need to make an effort to protect herself, even during her intoxicated stupors, because she was with Yang.

Yang pushes off the counter and turns, opening another cabinet and looking through the contents inside of it. Blake watches the way her tank top ruffles every time one of her shoulder blades move. “You showed up drunk. I took you inside, helped you get changed, cleaned your lip, and laid down with you. Then we talked.”

Blake lifts a hand to her bottom lip, feels the ripped skin again and puts two puzzle pieces together; the ache, and the injury. 

She looks down at the bed, sees the messy covers and flattened pillows, and remembers how warm Yang’s chest had felt. How close Yang had held her, like she never planned to let go. How reassuring Yang’s fingers had been as they brushed through Blake’s hair, as Yang silently encouraged her to keep telling her tale. How understanding Yang had been as she listened to Blake talk about—

_Oh._

A wall crumbles, from bottom to top. Piece by piece, it falls, so much quicker than planned. So much quicker than it should’ve. And the reinforced stone forms a pile of rubble, rubble Blake won’t be able to pick up and fix and put back together in the exact way it had been before. She watches dust rise as debris hits the ground, feels the base of her mind shake and tremble and fight to still against the weight of what’s just lost its shape. She watches dust fall, settle over what should be clean and pleasant, and knows it can’t be undone. 

And it feels so relieving, so much lighter. But she wasn’t prepared. And she’s worried she might float away without the weight of her secrets to hold her down.

“I told you.” Blake’s words are flat, more like an observation than anything else.

She _sees_ Yang’s shoulders tense up, watches them raise before she turns back around. “You did,” she replies, resting a bottle of aspirin on the counter. 

“I did.” Blake nods slowly, ignores the pain that comes with dipping her head. She looks up again seconds later, meets Yang’s eyes with an almost panicked intensity that really doesn’t match her voice. “All of it?”

Yang nods. Her gaze _cries_ concern, soft and patient. “Yeah.” 

“Okay.”

Things are quiet for a couple of minutes. Blake switches her attention between Yang’s face and the floor every now and again, and Yang can’t tell if her mind is going a mile a minute, or not moving at all. 

She watches until she can’t anymore, until she _has_ to speak. “Blake. Come here.”

Blake looks up. She sees open arms, warm and expectant, and can’t help but pull herself off the bed, cross her arms over herself and pad across the floor as quickly as her legs can take her. And when she hits Yang’s chest and buries her face into the fabric covering it, she nearly starts to cry. Because even with her face pressed against cloth, she’s breathing better than she ever has.

“You don’t have to be scared,” Yang says, pulling the other close against her. Her arms anchor the both of them to the Earth’s surface, but she wouldn’t mind floating away with Blake if they didn’t. “I’m not going to get hurt.”

“I really don’t want you to.” 

Yang laughs into Blake’s hair. “Yeah, it’s not very high on my list of wants, either.”

Blake breathes out deeply, lets her shoulders relax. “I don’t know what I’d do if he hurt you the way he hurt everyone else.”

“You don’t have to know. He’s not going to. I’ll be okay. We both will.”

It’s such an easy answer, just sentences strung together, but they come from Yang, and that makes them worth so much more than a simple promise. 

Thunder warns of lightning, clouds warn of rain, and Yang’s words warn of something good. Something better. And in Yang’s presence, Blake feels worthy.

She listens to the steady heartbeat near her ear, feels her head lift and lower with the rising and falling of Yang’s chest as she breathes, and feels steady. She takes in how warm she feels when she’s tucked in Yang’s arms, not because of their joining temperatures, but because of the heat that comes with expectation, and truth, and honesty. And she feels at home.

There’s this daydream, one Blake used to hear of a lot. Where two people in love stand in a kitchen, dim and quiet. And it’s lonely, but neither person feels alone, because they’re holding each other, and they’re dancing. Not wildly, not excitedly. Just gentle swaying, a few sneaked steps, and soft smiles. No music, no words. Just breath. 

Blake had thought it was perfect, that it was top tier and the best point a relationship could reach. But she was wrong. Because as she stands in the small apartment she slept in, against the woman she’d met more than a month before, falling into her and trading breaths, she realizes; _this is enough._

They don’t need a big kitchen, or tile floors or a dim morning or _to dance_ . They just need to be together. They can stand, wrapped around one another and never planning to let go, feet so close they’re nearly on top of each other, and _live_. And as long as they’re existing in the same place, breathing the same air and sharing the same atmosphere, it’s enough. 

Blake doesn’t need dancing, and watching sunsets, and getting roses, and going on night drives. She just wants _Yang_ . She wants teasing insults and stupid movie speeches and awkward hand holding and standing in the middle of a comedically small kitchen with no other purpose than to _be_. And she has that. And she loves it. And she wants to say so. 

She hasn’t. She hasn’t said anything like that, because she’s been scared. Of progressing, of moving further, of stepping into territory the damaged parts of her mind have deemed dangerous. But she’s tired of being scared, and she’s tired of running away, and she’s fucking _tired_ of putting her life on pause when all she really wants to do is press fucking _play_.

It feels like Blake’s words leave her before she can even open her mouth, as if they’d grown tired of being trapped within her throat and decided to take matters into their own hands. But she doesn’t complain, because they pry her lips apart with such vigor, the sentence sounds clear and serious and _real_. 

“I love you.”

Yang almost seems surprised. Not at the words themselves, but at the admittance. Like she assumed she’d have to wait longer to hear it, and she was okay with that. Prepared for that. “You… huh?”

Instead of second guessing herself, instead of taking the words back, Blake smiles. She pulls her head away from Yang’s chest, leans back and looks up at her. The sentence is stronger the second time. “I love you.”

There’s no hiding the red that makes its way up Yang’s neck, settling in her cheeks and anchoring down like the tint is there to stay. Her pupils widen, nearly swallowing the lilac base they rest on, and her lips turn up at _both_ corners, parting to show bright teeth trumped by the way her face glows. “Oh.” Her response is gentle, a little distant, like she’s still trying to grab hold of it. “I… love you too.”

Blake doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to. She wants to look at the woman in front of her for the rest of every coming eternity. She wants to bathe in the way Yang’s eyes shine, memorize the grin painted across her face like a masterpiece, and _live_ in the way her expression makes it seem like she was just told the moon rises for _her._ So she does.

The two stand there for a while. They watch each other long after their gazes grow away from shock and into staring, taking in the moment and the honesty and the way everything around them seems to vibrate with the intensity they’ve abandoned to make room for the delicate juncture they’re living in. They study each other long after Blake’s neck begins to ache from the angle at which she holds her head, and they only look away when the moment’s curiosity wears off, and turns into the need to hold one another and press close, feel heartbeats and rushing blood.

Neither of them really keep track of how long they stand together, but neither of them really care. There’s nothing to count down to when everything that matters is right in front of you, in your very arms. 

But, like most things, the experience must come to an end. And it does, at the hands of Blake’s depleted adrenaline and returning headache.

Yang, of course, understands, and hands her two aspirin tablets and a glass of water after they pull apart.

Blake mumbles a sheepish thanks after taking the medication, leaning her back against the small stove on the opposite wall. She explains she’s never been very good at handling hangovers because of how little she drinks throughout the year, and scowls through a smile when Yang laughs and calls her a lightweight. 

Yang crosses her arms as she presses further, amused. “What’d you drink?”

“Whiskey,” Blake says into her cup. 

“What was the proof? How many shots?”

Blake shrugs. “I don’t know. And... a few.”

Yang raises an eyebrow, smiles again. “So, like, three?”

Blake huffs and takes another sip before speaking. “No.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you have to see your sister or something?” The words are disguised as a flippant remark, something used to enforce her false annoyance, but she’s really just counting down the minutes until unforgiving schedules force the two of them apart.

To her surprise, Yang shakes her head. “Ruby went to a friend’s place last night. She’s staying there until, like, four. We usually just have dinner together, go to sleep watching movies after opening shit.” She cringes suddenly, like she’s just remembered something she’d forgotten. 

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“Nothing, I just… forgot to order one of Ruby’s gifts.”

Blake peers at her, but keeps her suspicion at bay. “Is it too late to buy it?”

Yang shakes her head again. “No, I can do it today. It’ll just come… late, obviously.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“Probably not.” Yang turns to the counter, takes her nearly empty coffee mug and rests it in the sink. Blake watches her turn the tap on, pick up the sponge from the metal rim and run it under the stream of water. She’s a little surprised when Yang speaks again, prompting her to jump slightly. “You don’t really have plans to see Weiss today, do you?”

Blake grimaces a little, ducks her head and lets her hair hang around her face, praying it hides her embarrassment. “No. Not really.”

“Mm.” Yang keeps silent as she washes her mug, hums quietly when she rinses the sponge and rests it back on the sink. She turns the tap off, places the mug upside down on the counter, and wipes her hands on her shirt as she turns to face Blake again. “So you’re not busy today?”

“No.”

“Alright.” She steps forward, away from the kitchen and onto the carpet outside of it. “Do you want to come to the shop with me?”

Blake watches her walk toward the unmade bed as she talks, resting her glass beside the stove. “ _Your_ shop?”

She hears Yang laugh. “It’s not _my_ shop, but yeah. You can hang around if you want company.”

“I didn’t know you worked today.”

“I don’t,” Yang replies, grabbing the edge of one of her sheets and tugging it to the corner of the bed. “The store’s closed, actually.”

“Then why are you going in?” Blake asks, casually crossing her arms. She pushes off of the stove, steps in Yang’s direction to help her with the covers. 

Yang shrugs. “I’m building a motor. Want to get some extra work in before we reopen after the holidays.”

Blake stands back and watches her smooth the duvet over with her palm, considers her options for a moment, and then speaks as one corner of her lips lifts. “Sure you won’t mind the distraction?”

Yang snorts, tears the smirk right off of Blake’s face. “Like you won’t be staring at me the whole time. It’s like you’re begging me to bring up the first time you came to my door.”

Blake’s face flushes, and without her cup, she has nothing to hide it. So she turns away, tries to even the movement out by walking toward the futon in the corner. “Shut up.”

Yang throws her head back and laughs, raises her hands in surrender as she watches Blake walk away from her. “Are you coming then, Belladonna?”

_Yes._

Blake huffs quietly, lowers herself onto the sofa. “Maybe.”

“Great. We leave in ten.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Weiss knew it. She absolutely, positively _knew_ this would happen, and she cannot _begin_ to understand why she was _ever_ stupid enough to let Blake go drinking without her, _especially_ when Adam’s roaming the streets earlier than he should be. 

This is her fault. Her fault for agreeing, her fault for not being as involved as she should’ve been, and her fault for ever thinking the ball of pure, unfocused energy at the other end of the phone line would ever be able to watch a drunken Blake for anything longer than an hour. 

_No_ , she thinks, fully willing to scold herself. She’s been working on the insensitivity that tends to bloom with her anger. _Don’t be rude, Weiss. Nora’s not incapable. It was most likely an honest mistake._

She inhales, chest tight. It better have been an honest mistake.

“Weiss?” Nora’s voice is quiet, guilty. 

Weiss shuts her eyes, squeezes the bridge of her nose and takes a long, deep breath; in for six seconds, held for two, and out for eight seconds, just like her therapist taught her. She does it a few more times, convinces herself to keep her voice low, knows it’d be incredibly inappropriate to yell and interrupt the family meal going on in the next room.

She speaks when she’s somewhat sure she won’t lose it. “How.”

“I don’t know!” Nora says. “Ren and I had our eyes on her the whole time, we really did, and then I looked away for one _second_ and she was gone.”

“How do you lose a woman, Valkyrie?” Weiss asks, and the question shakes with her effort to keep calm. “How do you lose _Blake_ ? _Drunk_ Blake, at that?”

“I don’t know!” Nora repeats, the words coming out in a whine. “I really don’t. I tried to call her but she’s not answering. No one from the office has seen her either.”

_She’s not answering._

Weiss’ blood freezes then and there, and she’s surprised she doesn’t drop through the floor beneath her feet with the weight it adds. She’s not angry anymore. She’s not mad. But her hands are beginning to shake, and she grips her phone so tightly, her knuckles turn white.

“You didn’t see Adam?” she asks. “Didn’t see anyone like him? Nothing suspicious?”

“No. Really. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Not at the bar, anyway.”

Weiss thinks Nora doesn’t sound nearly as terrified as she should. “How many times did you call her?”

“Ten.”

“And she didn’t pick up? Did it ring?”

“Weiss,” Nora says, a little softer. “Breathe.”

“ _No_.” The words are harsh, impatient. “Did it ring?”

“It went straight to voicemail.”

“When was the last time you called?”

Nora’s quiet for a moment. “Twenty minutes ago, I think.”

“ _Why_ did you wait so long to tell me you lost her?”

“I tried to call you last night!” Nora defends. “At midnight, when you stopped reading the updates, and you wouldn’t pick up.”

Weiss exhales deeply, remembers the previous night and how she’d spent most of it catching up with Whitley. She should’ve paid more attention to her phone, should’ve paid more mind to the fact that her closest friend was—

“Hello?”

“I’m here, Nora,” she says. “I’m just… I’m thinking. About what to do.”

Things are silent for a few moments as both women consider their options, go over what’s already been done, what’s not worth it, and what makes the most sense. Then, Nora speaks up. “Blake texted me a screenshot.”

“What?” Weiss’ shoulders tense, spine straightening. “Just now?”

“No,” Nora replies, clearly apologetic over the miscommunication. “No. Not now. Last week.”

“Gods. Of what?”

Her voice sounds further away as she replies, like her mouth isn’t as close to the phone. Weiss struggles to hear the words. “Of a conversation she had with Yang, about… soup.”

“I don’t care about Yang’s soup, Nora.”

“I _know_. It’s not the soup. Give me a second.” 

Weiss purses her lips tightly, taps her foot so fast, it blurs. Her nerves are so high, she should probably be having an anxiety attack, but she can’t, so she puts her energy into moving her ankle and hopes that does a good enough job. When it doesn’t, she resorts to pacing the long hallway she stands in, focuses on making sure her heels aren’t too loud with every step. She flexes the fingers on her free hand as she walks, relaxes them after. Repeats that until Nora speaks again.

“I found it.”

Weiss stills. “ _And_?”

“It has Yang’s number.”

“What am I supposed to do with Yang’s number? Are you serious?”

Her phone chimes in her ear as Nora huffs and replies, “Call her? She might’ve seen her.”

“Oh.” Weiss thinks on that for a minute, then nods slowly. “Fuck. Okay.”

“I’m sure she’s okay, Weiss,” Nora offers. “I don’t think Adam would do anything rash. Not to her.”

Weiss frowns. “Think about the scar on her arm and try to tell me that again.”

She hangs up before she gets an answer, and regret pokes at her throat, but she tries not to pay it mind. There’s a time and a place for excessive, hopeful positivity, and she really doesn’t think now’s either. But she’ll probably send Nora an apology text later, because she _does_ feel bad for snapping. She always does. Even though she knows she’s right this time.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she opens the file Nora sent, makes a mental note to tuck it back into her bun the second she finds a mirror. She wastes no time reading the conversation, instead looks for the set of numbers right underneath Yang’s contact name, and breathes out deeply when she finds it.

Her thumbs shake as she adds the number to her contact list and calls it. Her entire hand shakes as she brings the phone up to her ear. And her voice shakes as she tries to explain the question. 

And she swears she’s going to strangle Blake the very moment they’re together again.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake makes it easier to stop thinking. 

That was one of the first things Yang ever noticed about her, when they’d locked eyes in that bookstore for the first time. Blake made Yang’s head stop racing, casted away each and every thought and anxiety that didn’t have anything to do with her. And it felt lovely.

It tends to be a problem, Yang’s noticed, in songs and movies and things like that. When one person notices another person, and suddenly, they can’t think anymore and it’s the worst thing in the world. But Yang doesn’t think it is. She thinks it’s really nice to get a break sometimes, and she thinks it’s even better to get it from the person she loves. 

So she sneaks little glances at the woman sitting beside her, leaning against the cab’s window and watching every little thing that passes by. She smiles softly at the way Blake’s eyes seem to widen at small things, things other people probably wouldn’t find very interesting, and absolutely adores the way Blake’s hand fits in hers like they go together naturally. It makes it easier to think about the good things that’ve happened in the past twenty-four hours, and it distracts her from feeling guilty about keeping what she knows about Adam to herself.

She can’t help but feel like it’s the wrong decision, but given the things Blake said about him, she’s not so sure coming clean would be worth it. Not so close to the office incident’s anniversary, at least. So she bites her tongue and keeps quiet, plans to do so as long as she needs to; until she can get a second and third opinion from people who were close to Blake when everything happened. 

But _fuck_ , is it hard not to think about. 

“You’d think you’ve never been in the city before, Belladonna,” she says, clawing around for something to distract her from the angry heat that flows through her veins at the very thought of Adam’s name. 

Blake turns her head away from the window, looks at the blonde beside her. “Huh?”

“You look at everything like a tourist would, you know? All wide-eyed with a tiny smile.” Yang looks down at the hand she holds, runs her thumb over Blake’s knuckles and adds, “It’s cute.”

Blake looks back at the window, probably in an attempt to hide a grin, but Yang can see her lips anyway. “I just think it’s interesting,” she says. “It looks the same every day, but… I don’t know, when you focus on it, you find differences.”

“Reminds me of people.”

Blake turns her head again, furrows her eyebrows. “People?”

“Yeah.” Yang nods. “People in the busier parts of New York, mostly. They all look like they’re in a rush, going to work and running errands and stuff. It’s easy to group them together, but they’re really not the same.”

Blake lets her grin show this time. “You’re a people watcher, then? I wouldn’t have thought.”

“What, is it out of character or something?”

“No. I just wasn’t expecting less than, like, stalking.”

Yang laughs. “So I seem like a stalker? Shit.”

“Oh, definitely. I always run into you at Central.”

“What? Blake, I _invite_ you there.”

“You what? I’ve never spoken to you once,” Blake says flatly.

“So you got into this taxi with a stranger?”

“ _You_ got into this taxi with a stranger. I was in it first.”

“That’s true,” Yang says, nodding once. “I know because I held the door open.”

Blake chuckles through her words. “At least she’s a gentleman.”

“Biggest one you’ll ever meet.”

Blake opens her mouth to respond, only to be cut off by Yang’s ringtone. She waves her hand across the air, tells Yang she can answer the call and take care of whatever it’s for, and Yang offers an apologetic but thankful smile.

It fades when she hears who’s on the other end, even more so when she hears her tone.

“Yang?” Weiss’ voice is proper and unmistakable, even in its panic. 

Yang sits up straight at the way it shakes, drops Blake’s hand and switches her cellphone to her other ear. “Yeah? What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen Blake?” The words tumble out faster than they can be understood. “She went out drinking last night, and she got away from Nora and ran off, and she hasn’t been heard from since, and she _can’t_ be out alone, especially right now—”

“Hey, hey.” Yang’s voice is knowing and understanding, carrying reassurance along with every syllable. “I know, she talked to me.” She practically hears Weiss relax, hears her shoulders creak as they drop on the other end. “She’s fine.”

“Fuck.” The words are quiet, less from Weiss’ throat and more from her lungs. “Fuck. Okay. She’s not… she didn’t see… she didn’t get herself into anything bad? Or anything?” 

“No.” Yang takes a moment to try and figure out how to phrase things, how to seem less suspicious as the topic of conversation is sitting right beside her. “No word from him.”

“Oh!” Weiss’ relief is obvious. “Okay, that’s… that’s good. You know about him?”

“Yeah. Most of it, I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay.” Yang hears a little bit of ruffling. “I’m… glad.”

Yang nods, though she knows there’s not really a point, and purses her lips. Things are quiet as she thinks, as she looks to Blake sitting beside her, until she says, “Why doesn’t she know?”

The response comes quick, like it was planned just in case. “It’s complicated.”

“I have time.”

Weiss sighs, and Yang hears the sound of heels clicking softly in the background. “She just… she likes you, Yang. A lot. But she always lets _him_ hold her back. From everything. From travelling, from job opportunities, from _you_ . And I… I _know_ it’s complicated, I know he hurt her, and us, and that she’s scared, but she just… she lets it rule _over_ everything. And I’m so tired of seeing her miss opportunities she’ll never get again.” Her voice quiets a little. “I don’t want _you_ to be an opportunity she’ll never get again. Not with the way she looks at you, and talks about you, and I’ll be the first to admit it gets fucking _annoying_ , but I’ll also be the first to admit that it’s so nice seeing her so... _happy_ again. And if she knows he’s out, she’ll run. So I figure… if he’s not a threat right now, if we can keep an eye on him, why ruin this?”

Yang turns her head as she listens to Weiss talk, observes Blake with soft eyes and lets her posture relax. She sees the curve of Blake’s nose and lips and cheeks and chin and thinks about pressing her mouth to each one. She thinks about cleaning up shattered glass, picking shards out of skin. She thinks about how much effort it takes to make cracked stone look whole again. 

And she says, “I understand.”

Because she does.


	11. Chapter 11

Blake should’ve known Weiss would be upset.

Not even upset. Angry, if anything. The kind of angry that claws at silence, bites its way through nonchalant words tasked with masking indignance. It leaves Blake’s skin nervous, raising in little bumps of anticipation and suspense that are probably more prepared for Weiss’ scolding than the woman that’ll be receiving it. 

Surprisingly, the chastising doesn’t start nearly as soon as Blake expects. She’d tensed the moment she heard the knocking at her front door, recognized the three muted thumps and pictured the curl of slender, pale fingers without even trying to. She had wrinkled her nose in an uneasy cringe, inferring what would be expressed during the impending tell-off, but when she opened the door, Weiss said nothing. She only slid underneath the taller woman’s arm, missing the extra inches her heels tended to add to her height. 

She walked straight through the apartment, stopped in the middle of it to look around slowly, and stated, simply, “This place is a mess.”

Now Blake’s looking around defensively, shutting the door with one arm behind her as she observes the clean floor and every disorganized surface above it. “It is not,” she replies, despite her sudden awareness of the flat’s disorder. 

“Are you kidding?” Weiss shakes her head. “I didn’t even know you had so many cups. I’ve counted nearly a _dozen_.”

Blake huffs, steps toward the closest shelf and grabs the two empty mugs that rest on it. She stacks one in the other, brushing past Weiss with light dismissal. “I have seven. You’re dramatic.”

The other scowls, but doesn’t reply. Instead, she makes her way to the couch, lowering herself onto the cushion and joining her hands in her lap. She watches Blake bring the mugs to the kitchen sink, watches as she stands there for a moment. 

Blake wonders if Weiss can see how high her shoulders sit, waiting for the topic to come up. 

She can. She doesn’t mention it.

“I haven’t been home,” Blake says, breaking the silence. Expectant quiet makes her feel strange. “Just stopped in a few times to grab things.”

“I know.” Weiss leans back into the pillow behind her, wrings her hands so inconspicuously, Blake probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t turned around fully. “You’ve been with Yang, haven’t you?”

There it goes, that telltale heat, waltzing its way up Blake’s neck and into her cheeks. “No,” she utters, though it really sounds like the opposite. The lie is learned, something she had gotten used to doing when she’d deflect insinuations of a relationship with Yang in the past. It’d only been a few days since that moment in Yang’s kitchen, and she wasn’t used to not needing to hide. She doesn’t correct herself, but she’ll work on it.

“You were at her place on Christmas, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Weiss raises an eyebrow, silently urges her to continue. Blake does, though she throws in a defeated sigh beforehand. “Alright, fine. I’ve stayed at her place for a little bit.” Three days. 

“How was it?” The words sound unsurprised, as if they were sure of the confirmation they’d get.

Blake shrugs once, tries to lower the rising corners of her lips with her shoulders as they fall back down. “It was fine.”

Weiss’ voice is laced with skepticism. “Just fine?”

“It was... good.” A strand of white hair falls out of place, accompanies the tilt of Weiss’ head. Blake isn’t sure if it really is a sign to keep talking, or if she just takes it as one, but she’s not stopping herself. “I showed up drunk on Christmas Eve. She took me in, cleaned me up.”

“I figured as much when you ran off.”

_Shit._

Blake tenses a little. The hair on the back of her neck stands straight. “Ah… yeah.”

“Don’t do that again.” The words aren’t harsh, aren’t an order, but more of an ask. A cling for recognition. They aren’t dismissable, like a simple statement, but a doorway to a longer conversation that means more.

“It wasn’t that serious.” Blake doubts her own throat.

Weiss looks down at her hands, seems to flip through imaginary pages in search for a phrase that accurately portrays her thoughts without breaking through her icy facade. She looks back up when she finds one suitable, gaze meeting golden hues. “It was concerning.” Her stare is hard, but lenient. Willing to bend. Blake takes note. “People tried calling you and you didn’t pick up.”

“I lost my phone at the bar,” Blake reasons, pushing away from the sink and doing her best to walk toward one of her bookshelves with natural nonchalance. She doesn’t do well; she’s no Yang, and she’s had no practice. “It happens. It’s not unusual.”

“It was late at night, you were an incoherent woman without a cellphone, and it’s New York. Anything could’ve happened.” 

Blake watches her friend’s posture straighten, listens to the way her voice seems to shift in the same way, and senses something deeper. “I can take care of myself,” she says.

Weiss shakes her head, anchors her feet on the floor and stands. She crosses her arms when she’s upright, amplifying her annoyance. “Don’t say that. You’re a complete child when you’re drunk.”

Blake scowls. “I am not.”

“You are. You practically need constant supervision.”

“I had it.” _For the most part._

Weiss raises an eyebrow, zeroing in on Blake’s lip. It’s not as swollen as it had been days before, but it sports a small, red bump. “What happened there, then?”

Blake turns away, fights to keep her hand in place and away from her mouth; it’s instinct to cover a wound. “I bumped into the corner of a cab’s door,” she replies, masking her embarrassment with irritation.

“How did you even _manage_ that?”

“I don’t know!” She huffs, grabs a book from the waist-level shelf and pretends to read the back blurb as she continues. “I can’t keep my balance after whiskey.”

“ _Whiskey_?” The question is rigid, completely unamused. The following mutter is looser. “Gods, I should kill you.”

Blake scoffs, alarmed at the remark. “Why?”

“You went off on your own after drinking _whiskey_ , Blake, _that’s_ why.”

Blake doesn’t know why, but the apartment’s atmosphere is charged with volatile fervor. Weiss’ words blend into the feeling, the temperature, and bring with it vibrations that make the argument seem so much more detrimental than it is. She doesn’t know why Weiss is being so harsh without explanation, doesn’t know why she showed up so suddenly to deliver more than the scolding that both of them had expected. Blake’s not angry, she’s not scared. She’s confused. 

But what she doesn’t know is that Weiss is, too.

Weiss has absolutely no clue why she’s behaving the way she is, and she knows it’s almost uncalled for. She knows she’s picking at bones that aren’t broken, pouring peroxide onto skin without scratches, but her lips are simply useless against the attitude and vexation forcing its way up her throat. 

She thinks she needs to stop, and she needs to stop now, or things are going to go much further than they need to. She hadn’t even come to Blake’s place to reprimand her much; she had come to talk, offer to take her out for lunch. But the second she stepped through Blake’s door, her mind surged with words to say. Words written in some foreign language she couldn’t understand, only translating themselves once the vowels hit the space around her. 

She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she knows her heart is beating a little faster than usual, and her palms are sweating, and her head is moving far too fast. And those things don’t happen when she’s annoyed. 

Blake doesn’t like tense situations, doesn’t like when the air shakes against her skin, so she refuses to feed into them. She deescalates. She finds the root of the problem and fixes it; something she’d learned to do with anger, when she’d need to calm loud exclamations and dramatic commination. It’s served her well, and she reminds herself of this when she asks, “Why are you being so intense, Weiss?”

“You were being stupid.” The response is cold and miffed, but the words come from a much more complicated depth, one broiling and unrelenting and scared. That’s one of Weiss’ problems; she’s so used to forcing herself to hold things in, her external responses seem purely unreasonable when she can’t. When she’s lost control, even a little. She doesn’t like it, so she looks at the back of Blake’s head and repeats herself, hoping the sentence will convince her body to adopt simple aggravation and abandon the anxiety she can’t control. “You were being stupid.”

“I was intoxicated,” Blake replies.

“You should’ve been smarter.” Weiss can’t help but think about how similar she sounds to her sister as she speaks the sentence. It makes her cringe.

At this, Blake turns around, book in hand, and meets her eyes. Black eyebrows slant, showing her genuine effort to make sense of the situation. She knows Weiss was worried, understands why she would be, but doesn’t get why the woman’s dragging it _out_ so much. “What? Weiss—”

“You could’ve gotten _hurt_ , Blake.” Her voice tumbles from her mouth, as raw and honest as it has been, because seeing the noirette’s puzzlement made her feel terrible. “Seriously hurt, and that’s _not_ okay. That’s not something I can just laugh off and label a simple mistake and never _think_ about again. I would never be able to forgive myself if…” She trails off, lets the atmosphere take over for her, lets it finish her sentence. She doesn’t know if it mentions Adam. She doesn’t know if she wants it to, either. “Just be careful next time.”

Blake nods. “Okay. I will. I’m sorry for worrying you.” She understands how incautious she’d been, knows to be more wary next time, but she’s not really thinking about herself anymore. “Are you… okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She pries gently, uses only the tips of her fingers and the edge of her tone. “Do you need to talk about something?” 

The disgust in Weiss’ response is so _her_ , it’s almost relieving. “What? Talk? Absolutely not. I’m _fine_.”

Blake watches her, searches her eyes for a sign that the conversation isn’t over, that she should press just a little further, but sees nothing. If anything, she sees discomfort, and she doesn’t like it. She thinks there’ll be time for further conversation if it’s needed, time to discuss unspoken thoughts and hidden prospects, so she leaves it be. She can already feel the energy in the air die out anyway, retreating because what needed to be said was said. 

“What I _do_ need to do,” Weiss continues, “is pick this apartment up.”

Blake feels her shoulders drop, her chest deflate, and welcomes a small smile, lets it sit on the end of her lips. “It hasn’t even been twenty minutes since we went over this.”

“We went over nothing,” Weiss says, leaning down and picking a throw pillow up off the floor. She brushes it off, smoothing out the fabric, and rests it onto the couch where it belongs. “You picked up two mugs and left everything else alone.”

Blake shakes her head, amusement coating her throat. “Why are you like this?”

“What? Cleanly?”

“Annoying.”

Weiss shrugs, walking to the television stand with strides much more relaxed than the ones she’d arrived with. “I’m just saying.”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t Yang’s place a mess, too?” The question is a blatant tease, masked by the usual poise and promise. Lingering tension is already disappearing.

Blake slides her book back on the shelf, tucks it carefully between two novels, and mocks offense at the obvious insinuation. “What are you implying?”

Weiss responds shamelessly. “She’s rubbing off on you.”

The other scoffs, shaking her head against a smile. It’s not the insult it’s disguised as. “Wow. Uncalled for. Besides, her apartment is clean right now.” She pauses. “Well, it was before I got there.”

She turns around just in time to see Weiss’ expression, the way pale lips curl and unpainted eyelids shut for one second, two seconds, three... “Blake.”

“What?”

“Gross.”

“No—that’s not what I meant.” Blake shakes her head, leaning back against the bookcase. Weiss says nothing, only brings her attention back to the shelves belonging to the stand in front of her, and Blake speaks up again. “Shut up.”

Weiss scoffs, more entertained than annoyed. “I didn’t say anything..?”

Blake disregards her, pulling words out of thin air; words she’d spoken to herself hours before, when she was alone and going over the previous days’ events like a hardback she could read over and over and never get tired of. “We didn’t do anything. Haven’t even kissed yet. But I told her I love her.”

“You told her you love her?” It’s not disbelief; it’s an ask for confirmation.

Blake nods, slowly. “Yeah. It just… happened.” Vines grow upward, curl around her spine and her ribs, hold her heart strong and steady. They feel a lot like Yang’s hands. “I told her about Adam. The night before, I mean. When I was drunk. But I couldn’t remember the next day. She had to tell me.” Weiss lets her arms lower gradually to her sides as she listens. “I panicked a little, when I pieced it together fully. And then she just… held me. We stood in her kitchen and she held me for a while. And I kind of decided I don’t want to… lie anymore, you know? So I just said it.”

Things are quiet for a few minutes. Blake goes over the moment in her head, the way her mind seemed to silence the second those three words hit Yang’s ears. She remembers the way Yang’s chest had stopped moving, the way her pupils seemed to grow and her breath seemed to freeze. She remembered how the “I love you too” sounded like a song, like notes ringing in a tone so beautiful, she wouldn't have blamed herself if she started to cry. 

Weiss feels her satisfied smile more than she shows it. “I told you.”

“Huh?”

“I told you you liked her.”

“Oh my god,” Blake mumbles, like she’s tried preparing herself for the impending “I told you so” spiel, but it’s not enough. 

“You didn’t even believe me.” Weiss shakes her head, seemingly more content with her accuracy than the topic itself. “I swear, waiting for you to figure it out was worse than—”

“Weiss.”

“I’m serious. It was pitiful.”

Blake snorts, shaking her head. Her arms cross casually, one palm resting against the opposite elbow as she talks. “You don’t even like Yang.”

Weiss scowls slightly. “I _like_ her.” Blake raises an eyebrow, prompting Weiss to let her chin fall a little. “What? I do.”

“Right.”

She huffs. “I just don’t like when you… eat each other. With your eyes.”

“ _Eat each other_ ,” Blake repeats. She lets herself laugh this time, finds pure humor in the word choice because she knows it’s not terribly wrong.

“You know what I mean.”

“Mm.” Blake pushes off the bookshelf and turns, walks toward yet another one in the corner. She looks over each title, makes sure she’s not missing any, makes sure they’re all unbothered. 

Weiss’ voice startles her a little, though it’s quiet and truthful. “I’m proud of you. For admitting it to her.”

“You are?”

Weiss nods a few times. “A little.”

Blake smiles to herself, knowing Weiss didn’t _have_ to say it, but thankful she did. “I’ll take it,” she says.

And she does.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Something’s playful tonight. It dances through the air, twirls in little pirouettes, bounces off the walls and jumps on the cushion of Blake’s green chair. Yang feels it, bumps into its atoms as she walks between bookshelves and runs a clean rag over the wood that carries the stories and escapades she’s been thinking about more often than usual.

She wouldn’t pay much attention to it, usually. She’d brush it off as her nerves, as something a little strange in David’s tea. She’d acknowledge it once, linger, and move on. But tonight is different. Because when she looks at Blake, she sees a reason for the atmosphere’s ebullience rather than a reason to ignore it, to act cool. So, instead of making it her purpose to hide behind nonchalance, she makes it her purpose to figure out why Blake seems to radiate energy from across the room.

Something’s obviously different; it’s more and more evident with every glance Yang sneaks in her direction. Her shoulders are usually high and protective, as if guarding something strong and secret, but they aren’t right now; they’re loose and relaxed. Her hair frames her head in a halo, dark but glowing, and those golden eyes are pure fire, flames licking at everything in reach while promising no harm. 

Blake looks like she’d be waltzing if she could, on elegant feet and graceful legs, but Yang knows that’s not really her thing.

She thinks of asking her to dance, anyway. 

David senses the difference, too. He probably notices it sooner than Yang does, but he doesn’t say a word. He just goes about his usual business, boiling water and working in the backroom and asking Yang questions about the books she’s counted. He doesn’t even redirect her when he pokes his head past the doorway and sees her staring at the woman by the counter, taking her in just as she had the first time she’d stepped foot in the bookstore; like they’d never met, and she couldn’t wait to introduce herself.

And the comparison isn’t inaccurate; Yang would totally make her way across the room, lean against the counter and flash a perfect grin and say something like, “Hey. Come here often?” like she _knows_ it’s so stupid, and corny and _her_ , it’d be adorable. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she steps out from behind the bookshelves, folding the cloth she holds, and walks to the front of the store without a word. Blake doesn’t seem to notice at first, too caught up in the books sitting on the countertop in front of her, but when Yang pulls that one weird stool out of its resting place, she looks up. 

“Hi,” she says. Nothing but curiosity rests on her lips; everything else is inside her mouth.

Yang doesn’t answer. She just lowers herself onto the seat, ignores the way it definitely _does_ make her hips sit at an odd angle, and rests her chin in her palm. Her gaze brushes over Blake’s face, takes in her soft skin and eyes and the small blemish on her lip. She finds it all flawless.

Blake tilts her head. “Yes?” 

Yang keeps quiet. She hums, soft and telling, and studies the bend of Blake’s chin, the curve of her mouth, the bridge of her nose. She memorizes all of it like a movie script, like something she can’t forget without personal consequence, and thinks of pressing gentle pecks to each feature, soaking in the heat underneath Blake’s cheeks.

One eyebrow lifts, dark and questioning, complimenting amused lips. “Yang?”

“Belladonna.”

Blake obviously hadn’t expected a response; it’s evident in the way her chest freezes on a breath. “Need something?”

Yang takes in the other’s voice, wishes it had been more uneven, and lets a grin part her lips. “No.”

“No?”

She nods once, confirming. “No. Just looking.”

“At?”

“You.”

Blake’s arms cross. Golden eyes twinkle once. “Don’t you have cleaning to do?”

“I finished.” It’s a blatant lie.

“You started ten minutes ago.”

Yang rests the folded cloth in front of her, slides it toward Blake. “I work fast.”

“Yeah, when you do the job.”

Yang scoffs, gripping the edge of the counter and tilting back in her chair until she’s balancing on its back legs. “What are you, my boss?”

“You aren’t employed here, Yang.”

“I might as well be,” she replies, shaking her head as her canines flash. “I carry this place.”

“That’s an insult to David,” Blake says, relaxing her shoulders and observing the blonde before her with a gaze so wide and secretly warm, it feels like a hug. “I’m telling him you said that.”

“Go ahead. He loves me.”

“We’ll see about that.” 

Yang tilts back further, like she’s testing gravity’s limits. She’s not high off the ground, not leaning over the edge of a skyscraper, but with Blake in front of her, everything else seems so small and far down and distant, she might as well be on top of the world.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “We will.”

“I said the same thing, once. Then he almost disowned me for not finishing my tea.” 

“I’m not you. _And_ I'm the lovable type.” 

“So lovable, I’ve planned your demise six times.” The words are teasing, lingering underneath a thin veil of faux threat. 

“Six? In a _month_?” Yang exhales, keeps it dramatic. “That’s a new low for me.”

“Make it seven,” Blake says, looking to the stool standing lopsided and diagonal. “Seventh plan ends with you falling backward.”

“Yikes.” A playful cringe. “That’s it? No grand fight or skydiving with a broken parachute? Not very imaginative for someone who reads, huh?”

Blake’s pupils shrink, deep yellow swallowing pure black. Yang would be a little nervous if it weren’t for her smile, however slight. “I’m not helping you up when you drop.” 

“Like I’d need your help.”

“As if you wouldn’t want it.”

“I can stand up on my own.”

Blake laughs. “You’d probably forget to breathe if someone didn’t remind you.”

“That’s almost insulting.”

“Inhale, Yang. You’re turning blue.”

Yang scowls lightly at the woman’s grin. “I’m not holding your hand on the way home tonight.”

“No?” 

“No.”

Blake uncrosses her arms, reaching for the novels in front of her and beginning to stack them on top of each other. “Tragic.”

“You know what? We’re going in separate cabs.”

“Sure.” Blake shrugs. “I’ll pay for both.”

Yang narrows her eyes. “You’re hard to crack, Belladonna.”

“And you’re cocky, Xiao Long.”

“Can you blame me?”

Blake looks away from the pile of books in front of her and gazes at the other for a few long moments, finally speaking when she comes to her conclusion. “Yes.”

Yang says nothing more. She just watches Blake pick up the pile and lean down, dropping it into a container on the ground. Her back tenses as she picks up the cardboard box, hoists it up a little further to sit on her hip as she walks around the end of the counter with smooth strides. 

She’s not wearing a turtleneck tonight. Instead, she seems at home in one of Yang’s flannels, something she’d stolen that morning when she’d left Yang’s apartment. It’s brown and loose, ending midthigh over thin, light jeans, and it looks like heaven against her skin. Angels live inside her, with wings of feathers and flowing hair, and Yang can’t help but think about how impossible it should be for Blake to seem more ethereal than those beings themselves. But she’s not complaining.

Even when she forgets to keep her balance. 

Her grip slips, pulls her away from the wood she’d been holding onto. Gravity wraps her hair around its fist and tugs her down, mocks her for her mistake as she falls back so fast, the world slows. The stool slips out from under her, shrieking softly against the floor, and her back hits the ground so hard, every molecule of air rushes from her lungs. And it’s still nothing compared to what Blake does to her when she laughs.

“ _Shit_ ,” Yang breathes, lowering her head onto the planks beneath her; she’d been smart enough to tuck her head, save herself from any injuries, but her heart was still skipping beats.

Blake laughs again, walking to Yang’s side. Her head pokes into Yang’s view, and her expression screams contentment, framed by the hair falling forward around her face. “I told you.”

Yang stares up at her, still so dazed, she barely feels her smile. “Shut up.” 

She outstretches an arm, reaching a hand upward, and freezes when Blake shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. I told you I wasn’t helping you up.” Blake’s head pulls back, disappears out of vision, and Yang hears her footfalls as she steps away.

“That’s evil,” Yang replies, opting to stay where she is, looking up at the ceiling. “Pure evil.”

“I’m only following through.”

“But do you _have_ to?”

“Absolutely.” Blake’s voice is a little further away now, muted by the shelf she stands behind. “Why say words if I don’t plan on keeping true to them?”

“Don’t make this all philosophical.” Yang chuckles. “This is not philosophical.”

“I’m just _saying_.” A thump sounds as cardboard hits the ground, heavy and full. 

“I’ll get revenge for this.”

“For my honesty?”

Yang crosses her arms over her stomach, grinning to herself. “For being left on the floor.”

“You brought it upon yourself,” Blake says. 

“Still.”

“Don’t worry.” Her smile, hidden behind literature and prose, grows. “I’ll make up for it.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


Blake’s grown to like the cold. 

Not so much that she _prefers_ it, exactly, but enough where she’s appreciative of temperatures that make her shiver. They give her an excuse to curl up against Yang’s side, tucking her head underneath her chin and breathing in the same, warm air. It’s enough to keep her content, grounded, and she lives for the very moment their skin touches after hours of not doing so.

Yang’s never really minded the cold in the first place; she’s purely warm-blooded. She rarely trembles from the weather, tends not to use heavy coats, and rarely gets goosebumps. Blake likes to call her her “personal space heater”, mumbling the nickname against her skin when they nestle into one another at night, and Yang basks in the importance, however trivial.

Of course, it’s a lot harder to huddle for warmth when you’re walking. This is something both women have learned by now, and they’ve tried to adapt to it; Yang takes her arm out of one sweater sleeve, drapes the empty half of the fabric over Blake’s shoulder, and it’s awkward and strange at first, but neither of them complain. Blake just focuses on the heat of Yang’s hands, and Yang on the way Blake’s hair always smells like… something. 

She can’t put her finger on it. She’s had a hard time figuring it out since the first time she’d rested her chin on top of Blake’s head, walking her down the sidewalk toward her apartment. It’s a mixture of blackberries and candle smoke. Probably a little bit of lavender. And there’s a name for the scent, Yang knows there is, but she still can’t puzzle out what it is. So she settles on “home”. 

She’s breathing it in now, actually. Her face is pressed into Blake’s hair, one arm wrapped around her shoulders as they walk away from the street corner and toward Blake’s building. Blake’s arms wrap around Yang’s torso, pulling close to her like they don’t plan on letting go anytime soon, and both of them silently wonder if they’d be able to get through the front door without parting.

A soft gust of wind blows, pushing Yang’s hair forward around her face. She cringes slightly, raising one hand to hold it back as best she can, but Blake misses that and ends up grabbing it instead. 

She tends to do that, taking Yang’s hand whenever it’s visible and drawing small shapes and words into her palm. It’s so gentle and in-character, Yang never complains. She just tries to make sense of the abstraction being drawn.

She had worried her hands might be too rough underneath Blake’s, at first. She’d prepared herself to see scrapes and blood when the other pulled away, dropping the grasp for the first time, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, and it brought a sigh of relief so loud, Blake thought Yang was out of breath. 

It’s good to know Blake can handle calloused skin. It helps Yang think a lot clearer. 

She looks down beside her as she hears a quiet yawn, sees Blake clinging to her with her eyes closed and walking blindly, and smiles. “Hey. You.”

“Hm?” The sound is so soft, it’s barely audible.

“You’re not looking where you’re going.”

“That’s okay.”

“What if we run into something?”

Blake smiles lightly, though her lids remain shut. “We won’t.”

Yang feels her own eyes light up at the sight of raised lips. “We might.”

“You wouldn’t steer us poorly.”

“No?”

Blake shakes her head as much as her position allows, causing her to bury her face deeper into Yang’s shirt. She hums quietly at the warmth. “No.”

A horn sounds in the distance, not nearly loud enough to startle either of them, but enough to remind them where they are. Blake opens one eye slightly, looks at the concrete in front of her, and Yang squeezes her once. “You’re right.”

She sighs. “I know.”

“You seem tired,” Yang says. “Busy day?”

“Not tired. Just comfortable.”

She laughs. “While walking?”

Blake revels in the sound, wishes her mind had a replay button. “Yeah.”

“That’s new.”

“I wish we were in bed.”

“There we go.” Yang smiles, as if the sentence had proved her right. “We’re almost there.”

“Good.” Blake shuts her eye again, nudging closer to Yang; it pushes the both of them a little off balance, but they straighten out quickly, and neither mention it. “Weiss helped me clean earlier.”

“Your place was _dirty_? Who are you?”

The resulting scowl is lazy, fake. “I threw things around while finding the stuff I needed to stay with you. You rushed me so much, I didn’t have time to clean.”

“We were gonna be late to the shop,” Yang defends.

“You weren’t on the schedule on Christmas.”

“But _I_ had a schedule—”

“You rushed me.”

“I rushed you,” she agrees quickly, nodding once. She brushes her thumb over Blake’s arm, pictures the way it curves without even seeing it. “I have no room to talk, anyway.”

“Exactly,” Blake replies, kicking her foot loosely as she takes another step. “My bed is literally always made. It's so nice.”

Yang snorts. “You sure you’re not tired?”

There’s a brief pause, allowing time for a bang to sound in the distance; probably a truck going over a pothole. Then, Blake breathes out slowly. “Okay. I’m a little tired.”

“I knew it.”

“Can you blame me?” She pokes Yang’s side with her pointer finger. “You’re exhausting.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah.” She pokes again after a few moments. “Hurry up and take us home.”

Yang’s heart skips a beat. She thinks it might’ve flown away, pushed up her throat and through her lips and as far into the sky as it could, and she’s okay with it. There’s a ball of… _something_ in its place, now. Something honest, and soothing and beautiful, and she’s so accepting. 

“Is that you giving me permission to sleep over?” she asks at last.

The response doesn’t come as quickly as she’d expected; Blake picks up her head, eyes opened suddenly, and stares at the sidewalk for a few moments before even opening her mouth. “Shit.”

Yang’s heart is definitely there still. She knows because it drops. “I don’t… have to if you don’t want me to. I can always—”

“No.” Blake shakes her head. “Not you. You can stay over, I just remembered I have somewhere to go tomorrow night.” She seems to think about it for a second longer, and then groans, resting her head back in place. 

“Where?”

“You know my boss, Coco?” Yang nods. “She holds this… New Years party every December, in some penthouse. It’s supposedly for publicity, she invites a lot of people. It always does wonders for the magazine but it is _so_ annoying to attend.”

“Too crowded?”

Blake shrugs. “Something like that. There’s a lot of people and it all just seems… fake, you know? Like they’re there for status.”

“Yikes.” Yang cringes, sees a familiar set of stairs in the distance and slows her pace slightly. “That sounds… annoying.”

“It is. It’s so unnatural, too. I hate acting wealthy for people I only talk to once a year.”

“Why don’t you skip out on it?”

“I can’t,” Blake replies. “I work for Coco, and for the magazine. I kind of _have_ to be there.”

A small frown etches itself into Yang’s lips, sits comfortably like it understands. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

“It’s alright, don’t worry.” Blake inhales, stops abruptly as if to begin speaking, but doesn’t. The world is suddenly quiet, like it’d stopped moving just to hear her next words, and it makes her veins run a little hotter than usual. She’s surprised they’re not glowing underneath her skin when she finally asks, “Do you… want to come with me, maybe?”

“What, like, to the party?”

“No, to the parade,” she deadpans. 

“You know what? For that, I might just say no.”

“Great. It starts at seven.”

  
  


\----------

  
  


David isn’t used to visitors this late. Blake and Yang have already left for the night, tumbling out the store in a tangle of purely energetic comfort that always tends to bring a smile to his face, and he doesn’t really know anyone else that would show up after midnight. Except Oscar, maybe, if he’d managed to sneak out of his aunt’s house again. 

Another knock sounds as he makes his way to the door, and another when he reaches for the handle. He’s ready to scold the teenage boy behind the wood, ready to tell him to be more patient and that it’s nearly three in the morning and he should be home, but when the hinges creak and open, he freezes. 

It’s not a teenager. It’s a grown man, and he looks… serious. 

David puts on his storekeeper smile, holds the edge of the wood as he looks up at the person in front of him. “My sincere apologies, the store is actually closed. It opens tomorrow at nine, if you want to come back then?”

The man disregards the question, replacing it with his own. “Is Blake here?”

“Blake?” David shakes his head, swallowing curiosity. “No, she left around an hour ago.”

“What about the blonde one?”

“Yang? She’s not here either. They both decided to leave then.” He could swear he hears a growl, but he doesn’t mention it. He just says, “I can take a message and let them know you asked for them the next time they visit, if you’d like.”

The man keeps quiet for a moment, hands in his pockets, and finally mumbles, “No. That won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure.” He brings his hand away from his jacket and rests it on the doorknob, ignoring how cold it is. “I’ll catch up to them another time.”

David opens his mouth to speak, to ask the man how he ended up there, but shuts it only a few seconds later as the door slams closed. He sits there for a few moments, looking in the exact place he had been before his view was blocked by wood, and eventually decides he’s too tired to deal with the situation; sleep is clawing at his eyelids, and he’s surprised it hasn’t broken through. 

On the way to the backroom, already anticipating how soft his bed is going to feel once he reaches his apartment, he passes by Blake’s tea mug sitting on the counter.

He reminds himself to pick it up in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for being so patient ! i really appreciate it so i made this chapter a lil longer lmao


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha heyyy..... been a while........ im back but just a litte slower . smug cat emoji

The air is electric. There’s no better way to describe it; the atoms that make it up vibrate with an intensity so jarring, Blake’s surprised they’re not the reason her hands are shaking. Each breath she takes is so hot and voltaic, someone could tell her the spirit of a powerline is resting against her throat and she wouldn’t doubt it for a second. 

She’s not sure if Yang can feel it. A telltale sign of touching electricity is your hair standing up, but Yang’s tends to do that anyway, framing her face with a wild composure that always weakens Blake’s knees just to the point of buckling. 

And, even if she could feel it, she wouldn’t make it known. Yang’s skilled with her face, with the way her skin pulls against her frame, with what it shows and what it doesn’t. She knows how to manipulate her brows, her jaw, her dimples. The way her head tilts a little when she’s brushing something off, and the way her bare shoulders tighten as she reaches her arms above her head to pull her shirt over —

Golden hues meet lilac orbs in the mirror. Yang grins effortlessly into the glass, and Blake’s throat seizes, refuses to breathe –  as if she could even remember how to in the first place. She’s been caught, and she knows it, and it’s  _ far _ too late to look away, to feign innocence with a guilty breath, but she tries anyway. She turns her head, crosses her arms over her chest and does her best to seem indifferent. 

Yang’s laugh rings in her ears anyway, making itself comfortable where it rests, and Blake doesn’t care too much. The “do not enter” sign that guides her head wasn’t written with romance in mind.

She watches Yang grab folded clothes off of the dresser, reaching an arm past two coffee mugs. The ceramics sit calm with a sense of dignity, like they’re content with the lips that touched them that morning, the lips that spoke gentle remarks between each sip. The lips that wanted to meet so, so badly, but didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Blake thinks of the way a peppermint tea’s steam had risen in front of Yang’s face during breakfast, hiding every small detail, every detail she’d wanted to see. She thinks of the way the blonde’s eyes had wrinkled at the corners whenever she laughed, and the way those lavender irises somehow remained just as striking as usual behind a curtain of fragrance and grey. She thinks of waking up to those eyes, to warm skin surrounding her, to legs tangled like the web of a lovesick spider.

Something about it all had just felt so.. right. Yang’s skin was the best page of a book, her goosebumps were the words, and Blake had learned to read with her fingertips, running them along a soft forearm and absorbing every word tasked with calming her ever-racing heart. 

Yang’s hair had been light, fanning around both of their heads as the depth of night closed in and even Blake’s open blinds couldn’t offer the reassurance of a dim streetlamp. The locks gave security, and clarity, and something to sense when Blake fell a bit too deep into the abyss and needed a tug back upward before she started thinking again.

Her hand had been a pencil, drawing maps onto Blake’s cheek as the hours ticked by, as the sun woke up and began to hike toward the skyline. It left chills where it worked and drew mountains leading down to rivers whenever Blake would press a little closer; a reminder that rocky paths smooth out, deplete, and trickle away.

And her chest was home. It was the stove, the fireplace, the bedside heater. It was a place to huddle, a place to breathe, and a place to trust. A place to keep warm. 

Something Blake had needed for a really, really long time.

“So?” Yang’s voice grabbed Blake by the shirt collar, pulled her up at attention with practiced ease. “How do I look?”

Lips part to speak, framed by the barely visible fuzz lining Blake’s rosey mouth, but not a sound comes out; the air traveling up her throat, previously so confident and dismissive, had frozen right on the bed of her tongue, and it didn’t seem to feel like moving any time soon. 

In that moment, Blake became hyper aware of how harsh the air must be on her lips, drying them out as much as her tongue sat still. How her pupils dilated in a way almost robotic, and how her spine froze right where it was, bent and imperfect. How her eyes darted across the silk draped over Yang’s bare bones, and the cloth fastened to it. 

She felt breath whizz past her teeth, dance through the cracks between each one, and flow directly toward the object of her admiration. The first letter in a sentence, capitalized and tall and oh, so  _ there _ .

Yang offers a sideways smile, raising an arm to rub the back of her neck. The caution in her voice isn’t fake when she speaks again; she’s genuinely asking for an opinion. “Blake?” 

The name rings a few times in the other’s ear before she remembers how to work her mouth, how to coax syllables from the dip in which they rest. She nearly cringes once she speaks, wondering if keeping quiet would’ve sounded better than the way she croaks. “Great.” 

Yang’s grin broadens, canines sparkling. “Just great? Are you… sure?”

“I mean–” Blake clears her throat, wills her body to abandon its connection to her head and work. “Yeah. You clean up nicely.”

Gods, that’s an understatement. Yang cleans up so much better than “nicely”. 

Which isn’t unexpected, of course. In fact, it’d be rather shocking if she didn’t. Something about her just screams “ _ I look great in a suit, _ ” and it’s a shame Blake doesn’t know what by now, because she really wants to figure it out.

Perhaps it’s her lips, the way they seem to make whoever looks at them feel as if they’re underestimating  _ something _ . Maybe her hair, shining bright, though its flash practically boasts about being able to shine more than it does. Or her shoulders, two strong bridges that connect and carry whoever strolls them above the plummet that is her back, her spine, the way it slopes; perfect for an umbrella of gentle, black fabric.

Whatever the reason, Yang definitely  _ does _ look good in a suit. Especially when it’s Blake’s.

The outfit is dark, only balanced by an undershirt so white it glows. Yang’s hair is brushed, rested against her shoulder blades, and that one little strand stands up at the crown of her head like usual. Her arms are… there, sloping and curving visibly underneath the cloth and leading to strong hands.

“Good,” Yang says.

“Yeah,” the noirette repeats. “Good.”

They look at each other for a while, mapping the other's face like the act is habitual. Like Blake needs to know how far the other woman’s top lip is from her nose, how far down her neck dips into her collarbone, how much her cheeks raise during a smile. Blake likes to look at features; that’s what she does. She writes descriptions in her mind, using words only she knows, words that describe pure affection and attraction in a way common ones wouldn’t. She’s a face person.

But Yang likes eyes. She likes to peer as far as she can into golden hues, searching for the warm soul Blake keeps so hidden, hoping to see its shape so she can practice resting it in her palms. She watches the broiling yellow, memorizes its patterns and dances, and wonders how good of a high she’d get from inhaling the gentle intensity that comes with every gaze. She breathes deeper every time Blake’s pupils widen, every time black swallows stars, and somehow forgets to breathe at all when they shrink. But she never complains. Because no one’s ever made her do that before, and she revels in the feeling.

People say time slows when you’re in love, but Yang doesn’t think so; she thinks it stays the same, but becomes sickeningly obvious. She thinks she might as well grow a timer in her head with the way she practically hears every second ticking down, signaling every minute that passes and brings them both closer to the bright red sign marked “LATE.”

“We should probably get going.” She wishes she was as bad at talking as Blake had been as the words leave her lips; she’d rather sit here all day, simply watching. 

“Yeah.”

Yang’s lips turn up again, ever so slightly. “Yeah.”

“You’re making us late,” Blake says, so obviously lacking the intent to move, it’s painful.

A calloused hand reaches forward, offers itself and the warmth of the chuckle that comes with it. “ _ I’m _ making us late? I’m not the one staring.”

“Right.” Blake accepts it and lifts herself off of the bed. Her skin is soft in Yang’s palm, like the brush of a curious spirit. “Wipe your mouth. You’re drooling.” 

Yang only scoffs with a grin, lets her eyes brush over the side of Blake’s cheek and neck as she drops the hand and passes toward shoes by the door with movements so unintentionally fluid, they’re almost too elegant to be real. Yang knows that even as she double checks the corner of her lips for anything wet. 

Even in her dropped facade and Blake’s gained confidence, the two women are complementary. Perfect in a way that wavers, flawed to the point of ethereality. They build off of each other with cracked bricks, aiming to make a solid wall, a solid foundation to stem from, and everything’s up to code. 

“Silver heels, right?” 

Yang lifts her head again, looks toward the voice and takes in how much better Blake looks while standing. Her short slip dress is dark and violent, so purple it’s nearly black. It ends just below mid-thigh, and Yang’s had to bite her tongue a few times to keep from asking how cold it’d leave her. Her legs are smooth and toned, calves sporting a cloth anklet embezzled with tiny, dark stones; something Blake had complained about earlier, something pricey. Silver chains rest over her neck, her chest, the longest one dipping between her breasts and ending below the fabric covering her ribcage. Her lips are loud and rich, painted a deep brown and slightly worn already from Blake’s tendency to absentmindedly chew the flesh. Her eyeliner is winged, lids barren of any shadow, and her hair is braided behind her back, comfortable but fancy, just like she’d asked Yang to make sure of. 

“Yeah,” Yang says, watching Blake lean down to grab the shoes she’d mentioned. “Those ones.”

“Okay.”

“If you won’t trip, I mean,” she adds, amusement clinging to every word.

Blake scowls, turns her head. “Shut up,” she says. 

Yang shoots back, “You don’t mean that.”

“No?” 

“No. You’d listen to me talk forever.”

Blake smiles ever so slightly at the truth, lets the wall across from her absorb it, and doesn’t even think to turn and show Yang the grin she already knows is there. “I’d tune out.”

“You’re cruel, Belladonna.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

The words are light.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Yang loves when Blake puts her head on her shoulder. It’s light and lingering, and sometimes she’ll sigh, and warm breath will blow blonde hair away from a soft jaw, placing it somewhere that feels so much better only because Blake is the one who’d moved it. 

Blake will rest her hand on Yang’s leg, soft like a kitten's paw, and trace her fingertips around absentmindedly. Yang likes to make out shapes, letters, words. She’s not the best at it, she knows that, but it doesn’t matter anyway. The movement is so soft, and gentle, and caring that it makes her heart beat wildly, blood rushing toward the space underneath Blake’s fingernail like it’s waiting for her skin to pop, waiting for the opportunity to leak and confess again, and again, and again that she’s completely in love. 

Like it doesn’t already show through the gentle nuzzles, or the hand holding, or the way she gravitates toward black hair when she’s not alone in bed. Like it doesn’t show through her smile, or her posture, or her expression, which wouldn’t be wrong by a long shot; Yang’s gotten really good at hiding her emotions, at sculpting her face in marble. But Blake is a ball-peen hammer, and she’s so good at shattering the statue Yang is into pieces. 

Blake’s cheek fits the dip of Yang’s neck the way a brass key fits between gears. The way ribs fit below a chest. The way puzzle pieces fit in place, snug and surrounded, and Yang really has to try her best not to wonder if Blake’s mouth would fit the same way against hers. If her lips would mend the ripped pages of Yang’s story, fill the cracks in Yang’s earth and call her home when the wind is too cold, just the way that head on her shoulder does.

It takes so much focus and so much poise, and she absolutely doubts the existence of both things, because her “be cool” meter has run out. There are no more chill smiles and lowkey shrugs, not while Blake is sitting in the back of this taxi beside her looking like…  _ that. _

Her heart is flipping, fighting the current with every circle Blake’s fingers trace, and she’s swimming so hard, her arms burn so bad, and she just wants to drown. She just wants to give in. She wants to look Blake in the eyes, lean in, and kiss her with such care and adoration, it feels like fire.

But she can’t. Not yet. 

Not so soon, and not when she’s still questioning what Blake’s reaction would be. She wants them both to be sure of it. Comfortable. Ready.

So she pries her eyes away from the other, brings her gaze to focus on the painted digits resting on her thigh, and breathes out as they tap once, tracing a pattern of small triangles afterward.

The breath that leaves her lungs is cold, almost reluctant, like it doesn’t want to leave her mouth if it’s not sneaking through Blake’s lips. It tantrums in the surrounding air like a child, albeit unseen by both women, and grabs hold of every molecule it can, pushing them aside and desperately making space for the lovers to press closer. And Yang takes advantage of that, wraps her arm a little tighter around Blake’s shoulder and pulls her just a centimeter further. 

Blake’s finger taps again, and the movement is slight, but it comes from her, and it’s enough to pull the air from Yang’s lungs once more. 

She taps and traces again, and again, Yang breathes. 

And it happens a second time, a third time. And a fourth time, and a fifth time, and with that sixth time, Yang’s come a lot further away from raging waters, and much closer to the dim realization that Blake’s fingers aren’t drawing shapes; they’re writing words. 

They tap one more time, almost like a signal to focus, a signal to observe, so Yang does. And with each fluid curve of Blake’s fingertip, each loop and bend, she smiles. Because the first line and it’s topping dot gave her butterflies. The second angle was right and straight, and it made her heart skip. The third circle, the fourth zag, and the fifth swirl freeze her lungs, and the last word sends her soaring. 

_ ‘i love you.’ _

And the process begins again, with a starting rap of two fingers, like Blake’s going to repeat the movements, like she’s going to start over, and for a fleeting second, Yang almost thinks she’d been tracing the words by accident, without even realizing.

But when Yang looks over, tilting her head as much as she can for a decent view of the woman leaning against her, the action stops. Fingers still. And dark lips do the talking instead.

“Finally.”

It definitely wasn’t the fond words Yang was expecting, but she could deal. She  _ would  _ deal, because she’s never wanted to do anything more. So she paints her mouth with an unbothered smile, rests her head against the seat, and says only, “You misspelled a word.”

“No,” Blake replies, deadpan as she reaches for the blonde’s hand. “You just don’t know how to read.”

Digits intertwine as Yang laughs, pools of lilac sparkling. “The illiterate and the bookworm? You’d never let that happen.”

“A certain tragedy,” Blake agrees. “We’d never make it.”

Yang ignores the confirmation, because she’s much more focused on that two letter word, much more focused on ' _ we.'  _ “You wouldn’t have taught me?”

“Not at all. We wouldn’t have even met. You wouldn’t have had a reason to go to the bookstore in the first place.”

“Not true. I was getting Ruby’s book that night. Had nothing to do with me.”

“And you’re telling me you didn’t have to read directions to get there?” An eyebrow arches, dark and amused.

Yang shrugs. “No. I just knew where I was going.”

“You can barely find your way around the book stacks.”

“Yeah, well, some of us haven’t lived there.”

“I don’t live there.”

She nudges Blake’s side. “You might as well. You’re like a rabid wolf in a forest or something. Hunting for books and small animals.”

Blake snorts. “Rabid wolves can’t read.”

“Wrong. Special ones can.”

Heat rises to Blake’s cheeks, and she almost tries to tuck her face into her chest, because she has no clue why. “Special ones, hm?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” 

She watches their joined hands for a moment, listens to Yang breathe and catches the deep inhale she takes before she talks again. “Would you teach me if I paid you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really? Not even, like, a hundred dollars?”

“Like you’d have that for  _ tutoring _ .”

“With  _ you  _ as my tutor? I’d pay thousands.”

Blake turns her head, looks over Yang’s face in the dramaticized act of searching for seriousness. Then, she looks back to the window. “I’m telling the driver to stop and I’m leaving.”

“No chance. I’ll tell him to keep going.”

“That’s probably kidnapping.”

“ _ Probably. _ ”

“You’d risk it?” she asks.

Yang grins. “Oh, definitely.”

Blake shifts, crosses her legs with intended causality, although it shows more like mirth accompanied with her ever so slight smile. “Change of plans. I’m opening the door and pushing you out.”

Yang’s doubt is honest. “Nooo. You’d miss me too much.”

“Pfft. I’d celebrate.”

“With what, you lightweight? A single sip of whiskey?”

Blake juts her elbow into Yang’s side, fails to bite back a grin at the exaggerated groan she earns. “With peace and quiet.”

Yang nudges her back after catching her breath. “You love me.”

“Do I?” Blake picks her head up, turns it to face Yang and look her straight in the eye. 

It’s a simple joke, a humorous question, a little jab like the ones they always make. She expects Yang to go along with it, to fake dramatic offense or shoot something back while looking away, but she won’t this time. And when Blake realizes that, her heart skips a beat, and she nearly boils where she sits, melts in her seat, and prays the steam that takes her place will say,  _ “Yes.” _

Yang’s pupils are the ones that widen this time, eyes nearly hidden by the loose strands of golden hair that fall in front of her face as she leans down just the little bit she needs to to be level with Blake. Her voice is soft when she speaks, but it grips the other woman like a vise, and neither of them complain. “Yeah,” she says. “You do.”

Blake’s exhale squeaks as it leaves her throat, harmonizes with the words she repeats so quickly, it’s like she didn’t even think twice before speaking them. “Yeah. I do.”

A corner of Yang’s lips lifts, one cheek rising and dimpling in a way so specific and real, so unique to her, nothing in the world exists but that one expression. Blake’s forgotten every face she’s ever seen, every smile she’s ever watched, and every eye she’s ever met gazes with.

Because that one lifted corner, that one lopsided grin, is the only thing that will ever matter to her ever again.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Parties really aren’t Blake’s scene. She doesn’t like how charged the atmosphere feels– the way it feels when she looks at Yang times  _ ten _ – and she can only handle so much at once. 

They make her nervous, make her want to hide inside of herself and weave between each one of her ribs, protected by a cage only the wildest would break through. She doesn’t like the way loud music makes her blood skip in her veins, the way drunken men peer at every petite, bare arm that passes by. 

She’ll look at a crowd and see a messy floor, a dirty house. Not people high on every bit of adrenaline they can steal from the rhythm they listen to. She’ll see something that needs to be cleaned and corrected, stopped before it continues, but not only is she the least in charge there– she also has a reputation to maintain. Even if it means pretending to be a wealthy penthouse-trasher for a night.

“You’d think these things would be a little more tidy, huh?” Yang asks, voice raised over the music creeping past the walls; they haven’t even entered the room yet. They’re still standing before the doors.

Blake watches the colors of the carpet beneath her swirl, feels the wool underneath her heels and tries to predict what it will feel like to step straight off of it and fall, fall, fall, directly onto sweating marble, crowded with dancing feet. She shrugs. “It’s a penthouse party. These things are never tidy.”

Blake doesn’t know if her voice was loud enough, or if Yang is just great at lip reading, but she doesn’t ask. She’s just thankful for an engaging reply. “Right, but… it’s a magazine company. Professional shit. I didn’t expect DJ’s and dancing and… fire, apparently?” Yang sniffs deeply again, as if double checking. Or stalling.

Not because she needed to, of course. Because Blake needed to.

Slender shoulders shrug again, quick like they have somewhere else to be. The gesture reeks of indifference, but the paired smile sings otherwise, just as it always does. “What’d you expect, then? Fancy speeches and ratatouille?”

Yang shakes her head. “Oh no, definitely not ratatouille.” She pauses, lets go of the hand she was holding and snakes it around Blake’s waist, tugs her just a bit closer to her side. “Maybe, like, French tian, or something.”

“French tian?”

“Yeah?” Yang tilts her head, seemingly puzzled. “What about it?”

Blake raises her eyebrows at the woman beside her. “I don’t know what that is, Yang.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Yang watches the other for a moment, a soft gaze attached to another welcoming, and finds herself reminded of the fact that Blake had never really liked eye contact when they first met. She scrambles for a reason for the gentle grin the memory comes with, knows there will be time to address that later. “I could  _ so _ make a  _ Ratatouille _ joke right now.”

“I will leave you in this hallway where we stand, and make  _ you _ explain to my boss why I couldn’t attend,” Blake says, shielding the threat with lighthearted breath. 

“Because I told a joke?” Yang asks, sounding nearly dumbfounded, and Blake can’t figure out if it’s honest.

“Because you made me sick,” she replies, poking the blonde’s side softly.

“You know what?”

“What?” 

“Just for that, I’m not stalling anymore.” One determined step forward.

“Yang, wait —”  One preferred step backward.

“Come on, Belladonna.”

And suddenly, Blake’s not about to step off of a wool carpet onto marble. She’s about to step off of a cliff, through the air beneath. And she wants so badly to claw onto Yang’s jacket, dig her nails into the fabric and hold herself up, but Yang’s not there; she, herself, has already jumped.

Hotel room doors open, music blares, and the protective arm around Blake’s waist pulls her straight into flames.

  
  


\----------

  
  


Somewhere between showing up inside of that penthouse and leaving it, Blake learns two things.

One; she’s very, very dramatic.

And two; whatever she thought flames were before this wasn’t even fucking close.

They are so much better than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of a shorter chapter, more fluff (but a little charged), just getting back in the swing of things hope quality was ok hope ur all well MWAH


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